Casting Nets, Chasing Squirrels:
A Self-Study on Focus & Productivity.
June 8th, 2024
Rising Sun, MD
5:38 p.m.
When Jessi invited me to exhibit at Longview Farm this summer, I was thrilled. Until the reality of 'this summer' hit me which sent my anxiety straight to 10/10. Usually when preparing for an exhibition, I have more time to prepare and tell myself the same thing I tell my students—FOCUS! More time allows the development of an idea, and space to work singularly on that concept until the exhibition opens. Even though I’m an easily distracted person, I’ve gotten good at staying on track and focusing when specifically working toward an exhibition. For this show, however, I didn’t have very much time and was working on several unrelated projects simultaneously. I lacked focus. Ideas are never a shortcoming, but I had not completed most of them. Meanwhile I am surrounded by a significant amount of older work. However, my rule for exhibiting is to never show the same work twice. No reason, just a rule to impose on myself. I can’t explain exactly what the catalyst was, but I decided to break both those rules and give myself creative freedom to chase some squirrels while showing some older work.
I fully embraced the uncertainty of allowing myself to not stick to a plan, which has been wonderful, but also there is a bit of self-imposed stress created by uncertainty. I easily could fill this space solely with old work sitting around my studio, but that’s a cop-out. My ideas have changed a hundred times over the last month and at this point, three weeks before installation, I still am not sure how it will look when I’m in the space.
This show about trusting the process.
I think there are two types of artists: farmers and hunters. Farmers will plan their fields, plant their crops, water and weed, then harvest. Even if there is a drought, they will still have something to eat. Hunters wait and wait and if nothing comes along or they don’t kill their prey, they will starve. I encourage all my students to be farmers—and if you’re a hunter, you better have good aim. I think most of my students think I’m a farmer. I usually have my ducks in a row and like to have a solid plan. Unfortunately, I’m a hunter (metaphorically, at least). I wish I was a farmer and feel like I would probably sleep better if I was one. If you’re a hunter, you must constantly hunt, and you must be creative when you’re chasing squirrels.
This show is about hunting.
With my squirrel-chasing tendencies, I love all craft processes and can easily be distracted by a new process or tool. I consider myself a jack-ofall-trades and a master of one. My attitude of “yeah, I can do that” is maybe just blissful ignorance. This exhibition casts a wide net of the crafts that I love: embroidery, sewing, furniture, painting, printing, writing, and a bit of pottery. I’m not really sure of the theme of this show other than, “Here is this thing I made.”
This show is about not having a theme.
Somewhere along the line I also developed a longing to take complete ownership over the things I choose to make. It has given me a sense of creative independence. I want to know that I brought a thing into existence, not that I bought the materials to make something. I know, it’s silly. No one cares if I dug the clay out of the river to make a cup. It is still just a cup. Or that I built a toolbox from some wood I found on the side of the road. Just go buy some wood like a normal person. I don’t think I can do that though.
This show is about authenticity.
My creative practice has changed significantly in the last five years. While making and exhibiting are clearly important as an artist, I feel I’m no longer an artist who teaches, but a teacher who makes art. (Sidenote: Maybe this is why I am okay with permitting myself to chase these squirrels by allowing my inner student to learn techniques to bring to my students. Hmmm. I like that.) I am constantly reminding my students to stay focused on the task at hand. Creative individuals have no shortage of ideas. Often when students have an excessive number of ideas, they have very little followthrough. Because of this, I must remind students (and myself) to stay focused —to stop chasing squirrels. My creative practice has led me down two paths: directing the creativity of my students and fostering a community. The WCU Ceramics Studio has slowly become a large part of my creative outlet. I have spent fourteen years in that studio and watched thousands of students pass through, including a few stellar students along the way. I feel a connection to all my students, but particularly to those who take me along on their creative journeys. It gives me a great sense of pride when one of them is clearly making strong work that I helped them develop.
This show is about my students.
The longer I teach, the more I feel I’m not really teaching. I’m pointing students in a direction that suits their talents and letting them run. When I first started teaching in 2001, I confided in Dave Eldreth, my old boss and mentor, that I didn’t really know how to teach. He gave me some great advice: “No one knows how to teach. You have to know enough about people to recognize when to give a hand and when to leave them alone.” I think about those words all the time. My normal process for wrangling student’s ideas is to give them a general guideline, then leave them alone until they have a problem or seem frustrated. Let them cast a wide net of ideas, then after some time of experimentation, focus on a single idea for the remainder of the semester. It always works.
This show is about teaching.
I suppose the short synopsis of Casting Nets, Chasing Squirrels is that it examines pedagogical user interfaces and gives permission for unproductivity with an exploration of dissonance, interrogating dialectical interplay between form and void, utilizing craft media approaches to challenge traditional narratives, and evoke an ephemeral yet visceral dialogue with the…
Oh look! A squirrel!
I guess this show is about squirrels.
Woh Andrew. What a beautifully conceived and well writen manifesto!