While looking at art in art galleries, I also look at people looking at art. Artists, of course, tend to look at art for different reasons than ordinary folks and are, therefore, more difficult to study. Among ordinary folks, a wide range of discernible reaction and readable body language is apparent. Some reactions seem to be almost totally based on what people have been told or learned. I call these "programmed reactions." Other more direct and "pure" reactions range from awe to disgust. Thankfully, they often include joy. Some viewers have a visceral reaction that may even be accompanied by a temporary or prolonged state of trance. Jaws drop, bodies go limp and people are seen to sit or stand, not quite knowing what's happening.

The active ingredients of this sort of trance are feelings of confusion.

The much discussed and debated 20th century psychoanalyst and clinical hypnotist Milton H. Erickson had quite a bit to say about confusion. A consummate joker, even in his own practice, he used confusion and its incumbent trance to quickly open a window into his clients' psychotic or neurotic state.

A typical Erickson trick was the "confused handshake"--known among our friendly shrinks as "handshake induction." On meeting someone for the first time Erickson would reach out a hand only to grasp on to the other person's wrist. Then he would withdraw his hand in a sort of sensitive and sneaky way, trailing a finger or thumb lightly over the recipient's palm or finger tips. Surprised and disoriented by this unconventional touch, most recipients were at least temporarily set off in a state of trance.

Fact is, a state of trance (and thus psychological control) is readily effected by this sort of confusion.

I thoroughly recommend the hobby of watching people in galleries. In those arts where standards of craftsmanship and creative competence might be expected, a work of art with little or no craftsmanship or apparent competence has a good chance to beguile. Thus, a piece exhibited in a prestigious museum reaches out to the viewer like a handshake ready to be grasped and greeted--then rewards the viewer with something other than expected. Even uninterested viewers can be delivered a life-enhancing (or mind-bending) transportation that brings on a sense of awe.

Best regards,

Robert

PS: "Use of the confusion technique has many times effected exceedingly rapid hypnotic inductions under conditions such as acute pain and even in hostile, aggressive and resistant persons." (Milton H. Erickson)

Esoterica: Just as evangelicals, politicians, salespersons and psychiatrists can use baffling thoughts, images and ideas to accomplish their objectives, artists can employ similar means to attract and hold attention. Confusion is created by ambiguity, complexity, pattern interruption, insult, ignorance, contradiction, poor taste, shock, beguiling illusion, surprise, incompleteness and the propagation of riddle and mystery--all ploys that are familiar and readily available to visual artists.

Robert Genn has given ARTAZINE permission to post from his twice-weekly newsletter. For more of his artistic insights, visit his blog at www.painterspost.com.

Somewhere out in Lake of the Woods--a lake with 14,000 islands straddling the border between the US and Canada--there's one very special island. After several searches, I located this island in 2004. It was special because, about 1926, one of my favorite painters, Walter J. Phillips, painted on it. We know he was there because he painted another rather distinct island that lay in a certain position nearby. Phillips later made his watercolour into a wood-block print called  Sunset, Lake of the Woods.

In my ongoing hobby of finding where historical artists have gone before, I often find the previous artist had chosen a certain type of place to set up. With a bit of looking around on this small, unnamed island--and keeping Phillips' view in mind--I found a natural "desk" that was there for the taking. A rock to sit on, a place to put my feet, and a rock that took a paintbox and kept it level. There was even a little crevasse that neatly held a can of water.

Naturally, I had to repeat the Phillips event. FYI, at the top of the  current clickback we've put illustrations of his original woodcut, me on the same spot 78 years later, and another photo that might be of interest to you.

Yesterday, Melissa Jean of Kenora, Ontario wrote, "I found it, Bob! You asked me to email a picture to you if I ever found the island (I call it the Phillips-Genn Island). My husband Bill and I found the island yesterday, and we went back today to find the "desk." We looked at both little islands, and I found the "desk" where you and Phillips painted from. It took a while because it was overgrown with willows--they must've been little shoots when you were there. I trampled some down and set up right there. I also found an old tin can that was split open down the middle. It looked like it might have been used as a dish, and it looked pretty old. I imagined it might have been Walter's. I left it where I found it, and also tucked one of my paint brushes under it, with my initials on it. I thought, maybe someday my kids might discover it with their kids on a little treasure-hunt of their own. The place sure made an impact on them, and our daughter Ruby painted with me there as well."

Thanks, Melissa. It's stuff like this that makes it all worthwhile.

Best regards,

Robert

PS: "The first thing a painter has to do is to find a good place to sit." (J.E.H. Macdonald, 1924)

Esoterica: There is a Brotherhood and Sisterhood of painters. Dead and alive, absent and present, we travel together and keep each other company. Members of the 'hood are our friends, fellow students and occasional critics. We find them struggling and we find them triumphant on sunny shores and in quiet bowers. We honour them with our efforts as they have honoured us. The phenomenon of the 'hood just doesn't stop. As far as I can see, it's eternal.

Robert Genn has given ARTAZINE permission to post from his twice-weekly newsletter. For more of his artistic insights, visit his blog at www.painterspost.com.

Three others hang out with me when I'm painting in our garden. Lester and Mary were around here last year. This year they've brought along an oversized teenaged layabout with an annoying voice. Jack is often on his own, but Lester and Mary, who may be married, spend a lot of time strutting about, discussing, among other things, Jack. The parents are a bit co-dependent, but they like each other and seem smugly contented with their day-to-day routine. Lester, Mary and Jack are crows.

Their imminent arrival is often preceded by a loud smack on our patio. Lester and Mary will be dropping beach clams onto our hard tiles and breaking them nicely open, often near to Jack, who has been standing around, grumbling. This act of creativity seems wasted on Jack, as he takes forever to walk over and check out his take-out. No matter what the folks do for Jack, he's a complainer.

Several years ago, Teresa Amabile, researcher and professor at the Harvard Business School, completed a study which led to "The Six Myths of Creativity." In it she tore apart six popular ideas: "Creativity only comes from creative types." "Money is the main creative motivator," "Time pressure fuels creativity," "Fear forces breakthroughs," "Competition beats collaboration," and "A streamlined organization is a creative organization."

Amabile opts for more immediate and joyful creative motivators. In the business of money, for example, she found that reward didn't count as much as most people think. It seems folks get creatively engaged when they have a sense of playful progress. "People are most creative when they care about their work and they're stretching their skills," she says. And it happens over a period of time--one day to the next in a cooperative environment can produce more creativity than the hot expectation of a bonus.

I've come to the conclusion that Lester and Mary do the clam-drop just because they know how. Maybe they were similarly lethargic when their folks were giving clam-drop demos. But somehow they figured it out, and they got to like doing it. I wonder if it warms their hearts to be among the more advanced, tool-using animals? I wonder, considering Jack's indifference, if the production of dinner comes as a byproduct of fun?

Best regards,

Robert

PS: "One day's happiness often predicts the next day's creativity." (Teresa Amabile)

Esoterica: Those of us who think we create best when under pressure or when meeting deadlines should think again. Amabile found that "time pressure stifles creativity because people can't deeply engage with the problem. Creativity requires an incubation period, people need time to soak in a problem and let the ideas bubble up." You can read management guru Bill Breen's famous interview with Teresa Amabile here. A note of caution--none of the subjects of Amabile's now classic research were crows.

Robert Genn has given ARTAZINE permission to post from his twice-weekly newsletter. For more of his artistic insights, visit his blog at www.painterspost.com.

Recent research at the National University of Singapore suggests that feelings of job satisfaction may be built into our genes. Certain genes apparently determine how happy we will be at work--while other genes seem to be linked to lower job satisfaction. If our folks were grumpy about their jobs, we too are likely to be grumpy--and maybe even put in a poor performance. In a study of 1772 people, researchers found that two genetic markers--a dopamine receptor gene and a serotonin transporter gene--are more likely to be found in folks who like what they do.

Why do some of us choose the job of art? Similar to genes linked to leadership and entrepreneurship, some of us may have genes that favour independence and freedom. I used to worry that my need for art had something to do with chronic laziness or that I was incompetent in pretty well everything else. Now I realize picking up a brush had a lot to do with my folks, particularly my dad, who valued ideas, individualism, accomplishments, work habits and craftsmanship. A self-employed kind of guy, for most of his life he happily ran his own sign shop. I always thought it was my environment, but now it seems it may also be hereditary.

More problematic research shows that people need to be a bit nuts to excel, and that nut cases excel particularly well when under stress. But very few of the truly excellent artists I know might be classified as nuts. Underutilization of therapists is widespread in the visual arts. I think it's because we often prefer to take our own advice, but I may be nuts.

It's a given that an independent life gives courage to the next generation. Those who do not have this advantage owe it to themselves to hook up with those who do. One might even be able to shake off generations of chartered accountancy or other fields that attract therapists. Art is a job like any other, but it's also a calling that tests the depths of character. Genes or no genes, the calling should at least be examined. It's important that we be happy in our work. We're going to spend a third of our life there. In artists it may be closer to 100%.

The job of art has the beguiling quality of pulling you into it. I'm sure there are lots of professions that do the same, but somehow seeing those first morning glimpses of yesterday's winnings and losings keeps you coming back for more.

Best regards,

Robert

PS: "Human beings are of two classes: those whose work is work and whose pleasure is pleasure; and those whose work and pleasure are one." (Winston Churchill)

Esoterica: And what about talent? Is talent inherited? Current researchers don't think so. The older generation may give energy, example and support to the younger, but the younger has to go about inventing her own wheel. Talent is 99% hard work. Talent takes focus and focus takes character. Unlike a baronetcy, talent is not passed down the generations.

Robert Genn has given ARTAZINE permission to post from his twice-weekly newsletter. For more of his artistic insights, visit his blog at www.painterspost.com.

Recently, watercolorist Roderik Mayne of Toronto, Ontario wrote, "What do you mean when you talk about putting mystery in your work?"

Thanks, Roderik. I'm walking along a strange forest path. Others are with me--some fall back and some join later. We hear animals in the forest but cannot see them. We come upon surprises of incredible beauty that we can't explain. Some are quite in focus and others are not. Always something is just ahead that we can't quite get to. As we move forward, whatever it is moves forward also, but we never can fully touch it.

If you're still with me and you don't think I'm losing it, and if you catch my drift, describing aspects of life is part of the artist's job. Let me explain:

The path is also the road, stream, river, etc. Few of us have a straight one that leads directly to a big something. More in tune with the human experience is the curving, bumping-up-and-down path that disappears around a corner, over a hill or into a valley. This path winds and beguiles and serves a deep human need. It takes you some distance into the enigma.

The incompletely disclosed subject can be anything: a barn, a lake, a sunset, a splodge of paint, a boy, a girl. The subject need not be fully described, delineated or even fully understood. A hidden barn, a shrouded lake, an obscured sunset, an over-painted splodge, an escaping boy, a shy girl seen only in profile or from behind--all of these tease and caress you further into the enigma.

As you move forward along the path, toward the mysterious something up ahead, the elusive subject might be for a time in focus and the surrounding area not so. This is the nature of concentration--one thing at a time. It may seem unfortunate to some, and worth remedying, but in truth we cannot fully see the whole enigma. This condition, the "specific focus phenomenon," shows the nature of both human sight and human aspiration. The rest is blurred, fleeting, disappearing. "Suddenly," said Elizabeth Barrett Browning, "as rare things will, it vanished."

Best regards,

Robert

PS: "What I'm trying to translate to you is more mysterious; it is entwined in the very roots of being, in the implacable source of sensations." (Paul Cezanne) "The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery." (Francis Bacon) "A painting requires a little mystery, some vagueness, some fantasy. When you always make your meaning perfectly plain you end up boring people." (Edgar Degas) "The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science." (Albert Einstein)

Esoterica: You may call them devices, and in some ways they are. But they are the very bones of your paintings, sculptures, even your quilts. Similar to the plot in a story, the theme in a poem, the continuity in a movie, you need them and they need you. FYI, we've put a selection of Roderik Mayne's paintings at the top of the current clickback.

Robert Genn has given ARTAZINE permission to post from his twice-weekly newsletter. For more of his artistic insights, visit his blog at www.painterspost.com.

At a recent soirée of old friends and colleagues there was a politician whose acquaintance I had made back in high school. He was a jerk then and, as far as I can see, he's a jerk now. I found myself pleasantly moving around the room and not making eye contact with him. As a matter of fact, through the whole party I was blind to his existence. To my last Scotch I successfully avoided the renewal of our acquaintance.

A few days later, outdoors with friends in a complex and difficult environment, I realized I was doing the same thing with my painting. I disliked some areas in my work and avoided them. Other areas held my attention and kept me busy. Checking on my fellow painters, I was happy to note that some were stuck with the same sort of blind spots. This was a sophisticated "avoidance syndrome" and a previously unexplored mind trap, I thought, slipping into my irregular Freudian bonnet. It's as if an area of the painting turns on you and alienates you. And you don't see it properly because you don't want to recognize it.

For some of my fellow painters the background held their rapt attention while they neglected a difficult foreground. For some others, certain small areas around the painting became lost in the shuffle. For a few there was a big, blurred elephant.

I figured the condition is probably caused by one's experiences with previous successes and failures--parts that have previously given trouble. How do you defeat the blind-spot syndrome? First, I rationalized, you need to accept that you will naturally favour some parts of your work more than others, and that's okay.

While your work is in progress, you need to move between confident, intuitive brushing and rational strategy. It takes both sides of your brain to find the blind spots.

Ideally, let a few days pass before final decisions. When the time comes, cruise objectively as if through the eyes of another artist. The fixable blind spots will more readily appear. Leave the unfixable ones alone. A different workplace and lighting aid in this part of the process.

If in your most lucid and confrontational moments your whole work strikes you as one big blind spot--bad design, bad composition, bad form, colour, stroking, etc.--and you find the condition persists through many consecutive efforts, you might give consideration to another profession such as politics or psychiatry.

Best regards,

Robert

PS: "I have the feeling that I've seen everything, but failed to notice the elephants." (Anton Chekhov)

Esoterica: "Seeing is a gift that comes with practice," says earth-lover and simplicity advocate Stephanie Mills. It seems to me that the evolved creative eye is capable of putting problematic patches aside in the full knowledge that a gentle return will be made when other items are further resolved. Learn to squint. In the words of Henri Cartier-Bresson, "One eye looks within, the other eye looks without." Above all, be patient. "One looks, looks long," said Joseph Campbell, "and the world comes in."

Robert Genn has given ARTAZINE permission to post from his twice-weekly newsletter. For more of his artistic insights, visit his blog at www.painterspost.com.

I've never stayed in a monastery, but I've visited some, both East and West, and I've certainly bumped into a few monks. I've also known a few nuns, but not intimately. I was once offered a job as a missionary, but I didn't like the position.

But as for the painter, I like a monastic life. Mine's not as rigid as the pros'. I rise early, paint before breakfast, correspond, paint, break briefly for a simple lunch, perhaps a brisk walk in the forest, maybe a snooze, then back to the studio. Dinner is at home with friends or family. I work each day until tired, read a bit, sleep well, and do it again the next day. Several days can pass without moving the car. It's productive--the monastic life gets results. As Picasso said, "I like to live like a poor man with lots of money."

It's all about the renewal and rebirth of life through creativity. Similar to the nuns who tend the fields, or the monks who labour in the hothouses, there's satisfaction in growth, change, green shoots, raking up old leaves. Art reaffirms life and is in harmony with many universal principles. Perhaps the studio is even greater than the nunnery or the monastery. In the humble studio one hears the constant plop, plop, plop of product. Product that honours our land, our people, our earth.

To be in touch with creativity on a daily, even hourly, basis may just happen to edge yourself closer to divinity. If our universe is indeed a creation, (an idea that competes with the idea that our universe is an idea) then perhaps we need to be on that wavelength. Pushing paint is a high calling. To do it well you need humility. You need to walk the walk. You need a well-regulated, simple life so that you might become both servant and student.

And there's another thing. It's the fellowship of the Brotherhood and Sisterhood. They are all with us--the good and bad artists in the dusty books of history, in the galleries, in the promise of tomorrow's children, or right here now as you meet them on this remarkable medium that befriends us all--even though we don't really know each other. Art can take flight in an odd but active monastery.

Best regards,

Robert

PS: "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin." (Matthew 6:28)

Esoterica: Like Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline of the ancient Roman Catholic liturgy, or the five daily pauses of Islamic prayer, an artist can create defined spaces for reflection and contemplation. The creative monk recharges and begins again. Each pause may be heralded with a new squeeze of paint or a sharpening of tools. Thankfulness infuses every breath. Every new passage is a fresh test of studenthood, patience, applied joy and creative love.
Robert Genn has given ARTAZINE permission to post from his twice-weekly newsletter. For more of his artistic insights, visit his blog at www.painterspost.com.

The other day I was looking into the eyes of a painter as she painted. If eyes are the windows of the soul, they may also give clues to the creative process. I noticed several unique eye-movements:

In one, the eye travels with the brush tip or just ahead of it, paying rapt attention as if mesmerized by the brush's movement. Another is a glassy stare that seems to take in the whole work. Still another is where the eyes wander to an area of the work that is not currently being worked on. Often the eyes go to this area several times before the brush does.

I'll leave my report on the actions of the human tongue--supposedly a remnant of breastfeeding--until another letter.

Several years ago a former Apple and Microsoft executive, Linda Stone, coined the term "Continuous Partial Attention" (CPA). She described it as an epidemic of our times, similar but not the same as multi-tasking, where we are peer-motivated to double up our activities. An example of this is where teenagers are able to eat, send and receive text messages, watch TV and discuss school while looking into each other's eyes.

According to some researchers, we are in the middle of a revolution of "higher order thinking" and they say it's probably good for us. Steven Berlin Johnson is the author of How Today's Popular Culture is Actually Making Us Smarter. Considering the context, some of his ideas are surprising. He thinks we now create by "slow hunch," rather than having instant moments of inspiration. I also like his concept of the "adjacent possible," in which we slyly develop insights in unexplored areas.

One of the obvious conclusions is that we are producing art much faster than previous generations. It's not that we're any smarter than Titian, it's just that we're using our brains differently. Our eyes and their movements give it away. We may be doing less contemplation than some of the old guys and not paying attention to "all in good time." Some of us may be trying to do too much--too busy for the old forms of reflective creativity. And while some of us may be on the cutting edge of getting worse, there's a possibility that many of us may be getting better. Faster.

Best regards,

Robert

PS: "Attention is the most powerful tool of the human spirit. We can enhance or augment our attention with practices like meditation and exercise, diffuse it with technologies like email and Blackberries, or alter it with pharmaceuticals. In the end, though, we are fully responsible for how we choose to use this extraordinary tool." (Linda Stone)

Esoterica: Painting may be a remnant of "lower order thinking." "Look three times, think twice and paint once," is a time-honoured guide. Further, it's my observation that these days the glassy stare often includes default sorties into contemplation. During the glassy stare, brush movement tends to go on. The modern imperative to keep busy needs often to be replaced with simple Renaissance strategy.

Robert Genn has given ARTAZINE permission to post from his twice-weekly newsletter. For more of his artistic insights, visit his blog at www.painterspost.com.

Yesterday, Maro Lorimer of Anna Maria Island, Florida wrote, "As tax time approaches, do you think artists who sell very little work are better off treating their art as a hobby (claiming no expenses and reporting no income) or going through the formalities of reporting income and claiming expenses? Is there a threshold where it makes sense to switch from hobby to profession? Related decisions include whether to claim part of the home as business space, get a business license and get a reseller's license to buy wholesale. For the artist who wants to keep life simple but who occasionally sells originals, giclees and cards, what's the best path?"
 
Thanks, Maro. For this one I had a chat with the artists' tax expert Bob McMurray. Right away he told me in his experience artists who go the reporting and claiming route tend to do better. "Just by keeping records," says Bob, "they get a better grip on a career. They take themselves seriously, learn more stuff, and, just like blonds, they have more fun."
 
Bob has counselled many emerging and established artists. He urges artists worldwide to talk to their own tax specialists. "Different jurisdictions have different spins and loopholes," he says. "And every individual artist has specific needs and requires specific advice." Apparently, all taxing agencies provide guidelines for artists who are considering reporting. Generally, to report for tax purposes two main questions need to be positively answered: Are you carrying on a business? Are you in pursuit of profit?

If your answers are positive, then you should report your activities whether or not they are showing a profit. It's understood it might take a number of years to actually show a profit, but that doesn't mean you are not carrying on a business.

It seems most emerging and semi-motivated artists find their expenses exceed their revenues and these losses can be deducted from any other income. It's possible to lower taxes generally by reporting your art losses.

"The artist must report all income, both cash and non-cash, and may claim all expenses that can reasonably be related to the income earning process. In most places there are lots of deductions, depreciations and other benefits," said Bob.

"But it's all such a pain," I blurted out.

"Not painful for you," said Bob. "You just give us a great big cardboard box and go on having your fun."

"Scotch?" I said.

"No ice," he said.

Best regards,

Robert

PS: "Acting professionally breeds professionalism." (Bob McMurray)

Esoterica: Bob McMurray has been doing my taxes for thirty years. A couple of years ago he decided to retire and get serious about painting. He was always impressed with how much fun his artist-clients were having. These days he gives tax workshops as well. He's the only guy I know with two FCAs after his name: "Federation of Chartered Accountancy," and "Federation of Canadian Artists." Along with Maro Lorimer's work at the top of the current clickback, we've put up some work by Bob McMurray FCA, FCA.
Robert Genn has given ARTAZINE permission to post from his twice-weekly  newsletter. For more of his artistic insight, visit his website at www.painterspost.com.

In ceramics, there is always the kiln. Half-baked and half-made, the objects enter the kiln in slips of brown and grey. Later, after the Gods of Fire have had their way, they emerge ultramarine, ruby, golden. They appear as a miracle, seemingly unbidden, like some sort of magic or alchemy. "There is nothing in a caterpillar," said Buckminster Fuller, "that tells you it's going to be a butterfly."

Most art goes through such a transformation. Even a symphony lies flat on the plainest of pages until it is sent out onto the air by an orchestra.

On the other hand, unless we plan for it, a lot of visual art doesn't benefit from this sort of process. The painter, in one sitting or ten, may merely unfold a vision without the crucible of becoming. Creative failure and visual boredom are the frequent result.

For visual artists, directing the torch of our imagination is our main art. Art happens when alchemy is found. One, two and multi-step systems modify reality and create what has come to be called "style." Art without style is yesterday's laundry. Here's how to direct (or redirect) the torch:

You need to see your art as a state of becoming. Vigilance and attentive observation during work-in-progress provides the opportunity. The process takes place with individual works, and over a lifetime of trial and error.

We are the clever inventors of ourselves. Opportunities include nuances, conscious and unconscious mannerisms, evidence of unexplainable magic, flinty zips and happenstance gradations, strokes, splodges, slubs, bumps, bubbles and colour changelings. They may be gentle or violent. They may be planned or accidental. They may be lines or they may be patterns. They can be fat or lean, thick or thin. You need to look out for elements that change in front of your eyes, things that become something other than that which they just were. The artist lives by awaiting these events; and they are expected. "Becoming," said Paul Klee, "is superior to being."

Best regards,

Robert

PS: "The labor of the alchemists, who were called artists in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style." (William Butler Yeats)

Esoterica: Last summer I was out and about painting in my '26 Austin "Chummy." On the way home I had the dogs in the back seat and a half-finished painting blew out from beside me. Still wet, I saw it miraculously land face up. My joy was immediately diminished when somebody's motor home ran over it. Going back to get it, I realized my ordinary sketch now had cubist tendencies. After replacing a smashed stretcher, I decided to keep it more or less as it was. So you know I'm not just joshing you, we've put the painting, the car, and the dogs at the top of the current clickback.

 
Robert Genn has given ARTAZINE permission to post from his twice-weekly  newsletter. For more of his artistic insight, visit his website at www.painterspost.com.