Every so often I take a look at Google Analytics, not so much to get a sense of who is looking at my site as to confirm whether anyone at all is looking at it. I get a lot of hits, but as near as I can tell most of them are bots, probably looking to send me tips on search engine optimization or else probing for unpatched WordPress vulnerabilities. When I filter out the bots I typically find a few sessions per month that look like legitimate traffic, a smaller fraction of which were interested enough in what they found to stick around and check out more than a couple of pages. Last month someone from Quebec looked at nine of them.
Or to go by another metric: in the three years I’ve been writing the blog I’ve had two legitimate comments (and 500 or so spam comments), and two or three legitimate messages sent via my contact form.
So one gets the sense that the course of world events would not be much altered if I decided to pack in the blog and do something more useful with my spare time like, say, watching old X-Files episodes on Netflix. But so far anyway I haven’t. Why is that?
It strikes me you could ask the same question about my painting, too. At this point in the game, the odds of me gaining any significant recognition as a painter are pretty close to zero. While one can console oneself with the thought that a number of one’s heroes also laboured in obscurity for most of their lives (cf. Cezanne, or Torres-Garcia), the sad truth is that the number of obscure painters whose works landed in the dumpster after they died far exceeds the number whose works now hang in the MoMA. If I was a betting man, I’d have to conclude the smart money would put me in the former group, not the latter. So why keep going?
The short answer, of course, is that I enjoy painting, and I enjoy thinking and writing about painting. While it would of course be great to have a bigger audience than I do, ultimately my enjoyment doesn’t depend on the number of other people who see my work. And to a certain extent, I suspect my enjoyment of both painting and writing is greater precisely because the stakes are so low. I’m not under any sort of pressure to produce. No deadlines for shows, no quotas to fill, apart from what I impose on myself.
Well okay, one might counter, but if it’s truly the case that my enjoyment doesn’t depend on public acclaim, why bother to make any of my work public at all? Why not leave the paintings in the garage, and the writings on the hard drive?
Truth be told, for a long time I mostly did just that. Like Emily Dickinson, I too believed that “Publication is not the business of poets.” But a few years ago I changed my mind. I came to believe I had it wrong; that showing your work is in fact a part of painting, as much a part of it as the preliminary sketch or the underpainting, except that it comes at the end, not the beginning. It represents the completion of the work: a painting isn’t finished until it has some sort of public existence.
I’m not entirely certain what triggered that shift in belief, but I think it might have been something I read on the blog of Stapleton Kearns, whose Advice to a Student included the following tip:
Start showing you art locally. If you were studying piano you would play recitals, if you are studying painting you should be showing your art. That is part of the process.
That was something I hadn’t really considered before; that showing your work might be intrinsic to the process of creating it, not something extrinsic that happens after the work is done. And not only intrinsic to painting, but also intrinsic to the process of becoming a better painter. It seems to me that even the possibility your work might be seen by another human is enough to invoke an extra layer of critical reflection, spurring one on to clarify and refine one’s statement and in so doing, clarify the thinking behind it.