David Ray has been invited to present his work to high school students.
On the screen is an example of his work: a troop of terracotta warriors like none other I’ve seen. An army of ceramic figures in white with painted flowers everywhere on their bodies, bright colors, with bright blue masks that could make you think of a family of raccoons peering from their hole in a tree. What are they thinking? What do they make us think? What was the artist thinking?
I can’t ask him right now, because he’s presenting to ten students in a magnificent art studio in the attic of this large building, the ceiling cutting diagonally on both ends of the space, rising up to a peak above us. Bright lights, high white tables, stools, students atop the stools, legs swinging rhythmically below the table, pendulums capped by white Nike shoes.
Outside is autumn-yuck. Gray, rain, fog. The contrast from outside to inside makes the space we are in a little magical.
Dave, in his slight Australian drawl, is showing the students his ceramics. Incredibly colorful stuff. The art is in stark contrast to his inspiration for the art, for sure. Buildings, industrial machines. Turned in his mind into art. His art. It’s whimsical, with subtle messages, some we can discover on our own, some that require some help from the artist himself.
Where do ideas come from?
He gives an example. He was sitting on the couch in the US, reading the novel Catch 22. The TV is on. The mind game of the book melds with the mind game of the news. For him there is shock and an idea. He recreates a government building – power and contradictions – in delicate ceramics. He explains the connection for the students. Their art teacher makes a point for the students. Doing art isn’t just the doing, the technique. It’s also largely about inspiration, where ideas come from.
“My brain just went there,” he explains. That’s as good an answer as any, I guess. I bet once he gets an idea he can’t get rid of it, at least until he’s created something from it. Put something new on his work bench or up on a shelf. Something that might be in one of his exhibits. Maybe. His brain may well go somewhere else in the meantime, who knows.
He puts students to work next. “Create an animal or figure from two pieces of paper and some masking tape.” They scrunch, twist, and mash. They get animated, start talking. He asks a table of girls if they have ideas, what they are working on. One girl in particular is struggling to create any sort of sculpture. “Just get started,” he suggests. She looks doubtful. Can ideas of what you are making just arise by making … something?
The other girls at the table continue to sculpt, stealing glances at each other’s work. Ideas might be coming, might not be, ideas are like that. Maybe we don’t recognize them at all until we have them. Maybe our thoughts sort of run backward all the time. Maybe we assign our thoughts some intention after the fact, after we’ve had them, just to make sense of it all. Art might help get the idea out, even as art helps us understand the idea.
I get up to take some pictures. There’s one sculpture that reminds me of Giacometti, the Swiss artist. And lots of animals: a rabbit, an elephant, a dog. Maybe a dog, I’m not sure. The animals are pretty traditional, though there’s a spider as fanciful as the one outside the Guggenheim in Bilbao. Some ideas come easily, some don’t. Do this same task every day for a month, I bet the ideas come more easily.
The group debriefs for just a bit. They talk about being put on the spot, having to be creative, being self-conscious. Art teachers must have to deal with this all the time. In fact, the art teacher says exactly that: “I see this all the time.” “It’s like writer’s block,” adds the artist. I can relate to that! Ugh, don’t think about it too long, if you are a writer. Just start writing.
Because that seems to be where ideas come from. And that seems to be something that art can teach us, on a rainy day, or any day.