Creation or Copy?

Personal Facebook friends have likely already read most of the content of this blog entry, but I felt the need to expand it a little further (new thoughts at the bottom).

I just wanted to share this Facebook exchange. I've had this argument on several occasions when trying to explain to a show entrant why we couldn't consider their piece for a juried show. The below is paraphrased from a post on an art group and deals with someone wanting to sell drawings of celebrities done from published photos. I feel the same way about artists selling their reproductions of famous works…even if they have fallen into the public domain. Thoughts are welcome.

The poster (paraphrased):
"Even if it looks exactly like the photo, it's not a photo. It's a hand work done by an artist in a different medium. Someone might say, "Wow, nice photo" but a realistic drawing makes you see the talent and skill of the artist. I never heard anyone gasp in amazement at a photo of someone." 

My reply:
I have heard it and I have made such exclamations myself. Photography is a very valued art form and can certainly move people emotionally. Technical ability alone does not make one an artist. An artist needs to have vision as well as ability. You could place a dozen artists in the same landscape and come up with 12 different interpretations. By copying someone else's work, you lose YOUR interpretation of it.

Think of it this way...when a photographer (videographer, film producer, insert creative visual profession) creates a photograph, THEY made the creative decisions that led to what you see. They could have done as much as made the decision on the clothing the person wore, the position of the body, the location the person was placed in or perhaps the photographer was simply in the right place at the right time, but THEY still made the decision to snap the shutter at that exact moment. All the creative decision making was done by the photographer, NOT the artist copying the photo. The idea, the preplanning, the creative process is equally (if not more so) as important as the technical ability shown in the final piece.

Simply because you recreate the image in a new medium does not make it yours. If you created a drawing that you carefully designed and had another artist copy it in a different medium and call it theirs, how would you feel?

I am both a fine art painter and graphic artist/photographer. I set up photoshoots for apparel catalogs and deal with professional models. I know what it takes and the million little decisions that add up to just one photo. Copying another creative's work and selling it is a breach of copyright law, as another poster stated. It also does a disservice to you as well as them.

------ Now, I'm not saying that you should never work from source material that you didn't generate. I have created a couple paintings based on photos taken by my youngest sister, who also has an artistic eye. WITH her permission, of course. And often clients provide photos for commissions, though I prefer to take my own unless there is no way to gain access to the subject. Also, repainting the works of master artists can hone your own skills, just be careful that you don't end up using other sources as a crutch and inadvertently stifle your own creativity.  

After reading my Facebook response above, Ed asked, "What about buildings? Are you simply copying the architects artistic creation?" or something along those lines. My response was, "Well, some people would say that in my landscape paintings I was simply copying what God created."  We took it further. Clothing, furniture, the throw rug, a simple plastic cup Ed picked up. The cup was blue plastic with a lid and tapered to fit in a car cupholder and had little ridges on the handle. Someone made those decisions. Someone designed it. We are surrounded by art. Objects that a human was inspired to create and frequently we pay little or no attention to them. Imagine a world where everything was purely utilitarian. A world where objects held no aesthetic qualities. I think that these qualities affect us, affect our moods on a mostly unconscious level. Without the beauty, I know I would be a little less happy, less content. Ed will tell you that I like my 'things.' They range from antique furniture (imperfect pieces that you can see have had a long life before me) and art glass containers to a little shot glass that I've filled with found feathers, also a collection of fossils, more found objects, that I keep arranged in a semicircle from largest to smallest. I am admittedly a packrat. I see beauty in all these objects no matter what the accepted societal value of them might be. 

But I've strayed from the point. He talked himself into the answer before I had a chance to respond. Paraphrasing… "If you are photographing or painting a building, you are deciding the angle and the time of day that you take it, the lighting. As long as the final product is about more than just the building, as long as it's in a context, then I think it wouldn't be just copying." I'd agree and I think it applies to all the other objects we interact with as well, but it would do us artists some good to remember that many of the 'things' we paint are in fact the product of another creative mind and give a little nod to that artist as well. 

The Painting...

"Buster Brown"
Acrylic on Board
17 3/4" x 14 3/4"
note: dimensions are unframed size
comes framed
$895

rebeccazook.com

A New Life

"Leading" Granbury, TX
Acrylic on Board  10.5" x 8"
SOLD

I have a movie. 

Okay, it's really a Hitchcock film staring Laurence Olivier, but it is titled "Rebecca" and Rebecca doesn't even appear in the film as a character. She is a phantom, a lingering memory that haunts a younger second wife who sees only the outward carefully crafted public persona of the first, falls victim to comparing herself and comes up lacking in her own mind. How could her new husband ever love her after Rebecca?

I saw this film for the first time in college after fellow photography students expressed shock I was unfamiliar with it given my name and my penchant for moody, dark photos that could fit a film noir theme. I could see myself in the second wife rather than Rebecca. Young, plagued by self-doubting inner turmoil, though I could hide it better. 

Now I find myself in the role of the husband. Trying to go on with my life, find love and be happy after losing a spouse. If you've seen the movie, you know the similarities end there. It is a dark tale riddled with secrets and lies and I've striven for honesty in my life. For the past few months I've watched someone else struggle in the role of the second wife. It would be easier to step into a life where divorce had taken place, where an animosity had built up causing a split. Instead my boyfriend finds himself with someone who was in love, who was happy and had it ripped away by tragedy. Early on he found himself making comparisons or thinking that I was. The specter of a dead husband lingered in the corners watching him. He wondered if he was just fulfilling a role. Did I really care for him or did I just need to fill a hole? I know friends and family of us both were likely wondering the same thing. The doubts almost ended us. 

But I had grown emotionally. I wasn't the scared 21-year old anymore. I had gained confidence. Knew who I was. Knew what I wanted. Know what is important in life and how easily it can be taken away. I have to credit my late husband with much of my emotional growth. He taught me that I had intrinsic value; taught me to believe in myself. They say wisdom comes with age. Perhaps for some, but I think it's learned from how you choose to handle life's hardships that can happen at any age.

I have patience. He has a kind heart. He has intelligence. His priorities match my own. He makes me laugh. I could wait. 

Patience. 

Reassurance.
Compromise. 

Time. 

He started a calendar and has a system of little dot stickers. He thought I would laugh at this. One color is for exercise, one for 'productive' and one for creative. He has definitions about what activities fall under these categories and how many times a week he should accomplish each; acknowledging that ALL have an important role in creating a balanced, happy life. I only learned about a fourth color recently. The category is "love" and it's not just about me. He defines it as doing something unexpected like buying me a little gift, but also as playing ball with the dogs when he really didn't feel like it, but because it would make THEM happy. I found myself tearing up. How could this person have ever thought that he had nothing to offer me? 

I admire him. I respect him. I saw the good in him even if he didn't see it in himself. I know we are still learning about each other and growing. We are both willing to listen to the other and make compromises when necessary. I find that I am happy. Really happy with my life as it stands right now and that's the true objective isn't it?

In the movie, the house and everything that was Rebecca burns to the ground. All tangibility of her existence is erased. My late husband helped me become the person that I am today. I will always remember and love him. I do not need or want to erase him. I chose to use what I learned in that relationship to continue to live and to be happy. I know that is what he would want for me.

Remembering

Tom was never big on holidays…or celebrating anything that was defined by a specific date on the calendar. Valentine's was "fabricated by Hallmark." Our birthdays were a week apart, so we just celebrated both at the same time whenever was convenient which often just worked out to be Thanksgiving. Neither one of us could remember our anniversary. My sister used to send a congratulatory e-mail each year and I'd run into Tom's office and say, "Guess what? Happy anniversary!" When we first moved in together Tom's neighbors were thrilled when I put up Christmas lights. Even the grumpy old man next door could be counted on to hang one string around one window. One string more than Tom.

This was difficult for me. I loved looking forward to holidays. I loved the decorations and the food associated with them. For me the passing of the year was punctuated, if not defined, by these specific calendar dates. Over time I switched my focus. It became about the seasons. As an avid gardener, I'd anxiously anticipate Spring. Each new wildflower that appeared brought joy. What plants were going to return to my garden? What new ones could I try out? The smell of jasmine. I even love weeding. Summer became about the lake, the reappearance of lightning bugs and the sounds of the cicadas and sweet honeysuckle vine. Fall, my favorite season, was all about the colors, the orange pumpkins and gourds, the oaks turning vivid maroon, orange and yellow. A second garden growing season, the reblooming of my mums. Also, a welcome respite from the intense heat of a Texas summer when that first cool breeze touched my skin. Winter was still about Christmas. I couldn't give up the traditions surrounding it, not to mention a growing antique ornament collection, but my holiday decorating had grown on Tom. One year when I was still struggling with my illness, I could barely walk let alone climb a ladder hanging garland, wreaths and ornaments, Tom admitted missing the decorations; that it just didn't feel like Christmas. He bought me a little cut tree that I could sit on the sofa to decorate, giving me a little bit of normalcy.

I found that Tom loved and looked forward to the changing seasons as much as me. He had an avid love of nature and saw the same beauty in it I did. This was our compromise. Perhaps dates weren't all that important. Every day holds limitless possibilities. Each and every date important.

Today the smell of jasmine hung heavy in the air as I walked out the door. Today I will sit in what was Tom's office at work, now a meeting room, and see in my mind how it used to look with little wind-up robots on the desk and photos of the furry and feathered kids pinned to a bulletin board. Today is the anniversary of Tom's death. I will not dwell on the sadness but instead remember how grateful I am for the time I was given with him and how he taught me that I was worth something. How thankful I was that he was with his other best friend at the time of the accident and how lucky I was that he told me he had never been happier in his life, shortly before his death.

Waving Fields

In some ways I've been given a unique opportunity in this life. I've been forced to face mortality on two fronts. First my own when doctors were completely baffled by my symptoms and my health slowly declined over a 3-year period. Death was a very real possibility. Secondly, the sudden passing of my husband earlier this year in a traffic accident. The range of emotions I've experienced and my need to understand them have given me great insight into myself. Facing my own mortality went a long way in preparing me emotionally before losing my husband. I honestly don't think I would have survived it with my sanity intact if I hadn't already learned that I had emotional strength (I had previously thought myself weak). I had hope. I had a belief that not only did a future exist, but a future where I could be happy again.

I initially thought that my lesson was to appreciate the NOW. To take each day as it came and make the minutes count. I still think this is valid, but for me personally, I need more. I could drive myself crazy worrying about time wasted and only succeed in making myself sicker in the process. Time where I could be doing something more important. Time where I could be making a difference. What I need is to continue to believe in a future. To work toward long-term goals. This is where I have always excelled and I believe it was my saving grace. It will also allow me be less obsessive about the day-to-day. I can relinquish control over each second of each minute. Though precious, those seconds can be grasped so tightly and infused with such importance that they lose their joy.

I've watched other people pass in and out of my life, floundering. Not knowing what they were meant to do. Not knowing what makes them happy or where their passion lies. I've always known and realized how fortunate I was to know. I was an artist. From a small child I worked to perfect my ability and made it my life's passion.

It was simple for me.
I am an artist.

When I was sick, I kept painting even when my hands shook so bad that the brush skipped over the board. It was a needed escape from the pain and worry. After Tom died, I kept painting. It brought joy back in the midst of loss.

A few years ago, I painted Tom standing on a tower of rocks looking across a vast, nearly barren plain. I called it "Looking to His Past." I believe you need to understand the past before facing the future. I'm glad Tom nor I knew the limited scope of his future. I am thankful for the time we had together. I will never forget it, but now I'm moving toward a new future, not the one that I had planned. I've been forced to adapt, but I CHOOSE to be happy.

In looking to my future, I'm assigning myself a task. I've decided to undertake a year-long project and focus on a single subject. This is an idea I've entertained before, but it seems to have more urgency now. I know I NEED to do this even if I can't explain the why in any sort of rational manner.

If you know my work, you might suspect that I get bored with a subject easily. I do. I bounce from landscapes, to florals, to animals to interiors and more, but there is once I keep coming back to...the grasses. They exemplify quiet and peace to me. Nothing is so soothing as standing before a field of endless wild grasses watching them sway in slightest breeze. Mesmerizing. They allow you to glimpse the wind. The patterns ever changing across their expanse. An ocean in their own right. I will paint the grasses and let their calm wash over me.

"Texas Textures"

-Granbury Area, Texas

Acrylic on Board

16" x 12"

note: dimensions are unframed size

price includes frame

$595

Hope on the Horizon

I haven't written in a while. Mostly because I find myself in an odd situation. I've been dating for a little while now and men I've dated or are dating had requested to be Facebook friends. I don't want to inadvertently write something that hurts another's feelings, but at the same time, I don't want to censor myself either. Here's a first foray into unknown waters.

I gave the prospect of dating a great amount of thought. Am I ready? What do I want to gain from this? What kind of person am I looking for? How do you meet someone in today's world? Beyond that, I realize that I have several strikes against me from the other person's point of view. Dating at 40 plus is very different than dating at 20. By this age, we all are carrying around some sort of emotional damage, plus health issues have begun to surface for many. On the upside, we hopefully have established careers, children are in their teens and soon out of the house and we know what we are looking for in a mate. For me, at the top of the list was intelligence, followed by sense of humor. Looks have never really been a factor in choosing a mate for myself. Income level is not a big factor either. I can support myself. I want someone that can bring joy into my life.

The internet has proven to be both a positive and a negative in the dating arena. For a wall flower like me, online dating seemed to be the best option to meet new people. I heard horror stories from others about nut jobs or jerks that they met online. Friends were worried for my safety, but if you have realistic expectations, it's not as bad as they say. I believe it all comes down to being honest. Honest about yourself and about what you are looking for. It's the best way to weed out those not suited for you.

I saw my hematologist today. He had been unaware of Tom's death. After telling him what happened, he was concerned whether I had cut myself off from the world and said maybe I should start thinking about dating and was pleased when I said I was seeing someone. He asked how we met and the response of online dating brought a story about his wife. Right before they met, she had gone on a date where the other person, within minutes, started explaining how they were bipolar and on Lithium. Maybe not the best way to start out a date. Unfortunately I have a similar issue. I live with a chronic illness that requires lifelong plasma infusion treatments. At what point do you bring that up? To make matters more complicated, I've been very open about my illness and a Google search for me quickly leads to the discovery of it…the negative side of our lives on the internet. If I haven't mentioned it beforehand, the date feels deceived, but I don't want to be pre-judged or defined by my illness either. For someone without medical knowledge, it sounds pretty scary and not something they want to have to deal with. This is strike one against me.

Strike two is my widowed status which seems to fall under scary though I don't entirely understand this. Usually this is broached on the first date when I'm eventually asked if I've ever been married or how long have I been divorced. The initial reaction is akin to pity. In subsequent dates this is followed by a feeling that they are somehow being compared to a mythical figure they can never measure up against. Though I avoid bringing him up, they start asking questions, which I answer honestly. I feel that being able to say I had successfully navigated the potentially stormy waters of marriage successfully rather than been sunk in divorce was a bonus. I guess not. Also, as you well know, I blogged extensively about Tom's death and my emotions which helped me tremendously, but it's out there for any date to read. In some respects, I view it as another way to weed out the ones that can't handle it. None of the men I've dated have been widowed. Some were divorced and some never married. I hate stereotyping, but one thing seems to hold true. By the time you are in your forties, if you've never married, there is likely some reason why. Emotional immaturity seems to be at the top of the list. One the flip side though, those divorced are gun shy and approach a relationship like they are walking on glass. Always trying to avoid getting cut. One pattern holds true for both categories…the pullback. I mentioned this to a male work friend who burst out laughing and admitted the truth in it. It goes like this. Everything seems to be going fine and suddenly the e-mails/texts/phone calls stop. They get evasive, cancel dates and provide lame explanations. There is nothing to be done at this point. They either reestablish contact and admit they were suddenly unsure of what they wanted or are gone for good. To think men claim that women are the wishy-washy emotional ones.

As for my personal strike three, it's readily apparent as soon as you pull into my driveway. Five large barking dogs greet you, then you notice various cats dash by and then realize that through all that you also hear the sound of squawking from 3 parrots. Tom and I each had pets when we met and took in several more abandoned and/or abused creatures along the way. For the first time in my life I found myself having to be the bad guy saying, "no we just can't take in another one." They all function as one large pack or flock regardless of species with me as alpha (Turbo dog would disagree with my alpha status). The apparent chaos is certainly something to get used to and many people are barely tolerant of 2 pets let alone 16 total. A match for me has to be an animal lover. That is non-negotiable. After a few dates, one person said the he couldn't help feeling like he was another lost stray I had taken in. That he didn't have as much to offer as I had to give. I was oddly offended by this even though on the surface he was putting himself down not me. Then I gave it some serious thought. He had a point. In my past there was certainly a pattern of connecting to other damaged people, but in regards to my animals, you'd never know their past by their actions now. I've always been able to build trust with them, see past their pain and love them dearly and they return the love in kind. Is it any different with a person? As long as I'm not damaging myself in the process, I don't think it is.

My life so far has not gone according to any kind of normal plan. Thankfully, I never really had a long term plan in mind. Mostly, my planning is based on prepare for the worst, but hope for the best. The key is when the worst does come along, to hang onto the hope.

Sand Dune Crow"
-Oregon Coast
Acrylic on Board
10.5" x 8"
note: dimensions are unframed size
comes framed
$275

Wisdom of Age

Have you ever gone back and watched a movie that you loved as a teenager…10 to 15 years later only to wonder, "That was terrible. What was I thinking?" It's only natural that our tastes would change as we mature and learn more about ourselves and the world around us. Then there are the movies that are truly timeless, but your perspective has changed. You relate to the characters and themes on a completely different level each time you see the movie.

I ran across one of those movies this past weekend…The Big Chill. This is the third time I've seen this movie. Once in my 20's, then 30's and now at the age of 43. If you have somehow managed to go through life without seeing this film, the plot is as follows. A group of close college friends who have drifted apart reunite after 15 years due to the suicide of one of them. Virtually the entire movie takes place in the home of one couple where everyone is staying. The characters themselves are in their mid to late 30s.

Various conversations take place over the course of several days. Discussions of how idealistic they were and how they were going to change the world versus what they've actually become. Marriages, affairs, one woman desperate to have a child with no prospects on the horizon and of course the suicide…the topic they dance around and finally all confront as a group.

The first time I saw this movie, I did appreciate and like it, but really couldn't relate to the experiences of the characters. They were so much older. I was in my 20s. Very much still in the idealistic phase. My life an open book before me waiting for the pages to be filled. Living on dreams of what the future would hold. I thought, "how could people get so far off track and compromise their ideals?" "How could things get so bad that one would even contemplate suicide?" I was naive and didn't know it.

The second time I saw this movie, I had already compromised myself. Allowing another person to tell me what to think, how to act and who I should be rather than who I actually was. All of this in the guise of love. Feeling I wasn't good enough for anyone else and lucky that I at least found this person willing to be with me, though I didn't deserve him. I had given up my art and almost everything else that brought me pleasure in life. Why? I don't have a great answer. Low self-esteem, a belief I was weak and couldn't make decisions on my own. Constantly criticizing myself with that infernal internal voice. I wasn't that naive anymore. I knew intellectually what was going on. That it was wrong. That what he was doing was not love, yet it was still difficult to leave to reach out for help; admit I needed the help.

Now not only do I have the same perspective as the characters, but also of one other I hadn't yet mentioned…the widow. She was not part of the college group, was quite a bit younger and compared to the rest, unsophisticated. She sits quiet for most of the movie listening to what is being said around her about her late husband. Learning things she never knew. This was the one way I related to her. Listening to people talk about their past with Tom. The past that took place before me. I could easily see myself in her eyes. I felt like I had been dropped into the movie. She didn't find the stories sad. Neither did I. I could now understand the regrets of the others. Time passed that can't be retrieved or altered. Paths seemingly so deeply rutted that one could never climb out to change direction. I could understand them, but do not share them. I believe you must learn from the past, but not dwell in it. I choose to move forward.

I find myself coming full circle. My life an open book before me once again. All directions open, but this time I have the wisdom that comes with age, an understanding of the mistakes of the past, the knowledge that I am not weak as I had believed for so long and finally that I am deserving of a love that doesn't compromise my true self but instead embraces it.

The painting:

"Can't See the River for the Trees"

-Brazos River, Texas

Water-Soluble Oils on Canvas Board

24" x 18"

Fate's Lesson

It's been a while since I've written. I've been busy with both the day job, painting and volunteer projects, but perhaps I just needed a break from my relentless self psychoanalysis and needed to attempt to enjoy life again by just feeling instead of thinking. A new friend was discussing his personal situation and my husband's death with me over lunch and it seems we have in common the need to research and read extensively to educate ourselves when confronted with something unfamiliar.

He commented that I must have had to overcome anger toward Tom for dying. Except I never did. I wasn't angry. It wasn't purposeful. I also found that I couldn't relate to what I was reading about how to deal with a death. It didn't really apply to me or what I was feeling. I had already survived more than most people had to deal with in their entire lives even before Tom's death. My perspective was very different. I was left with my own thoughts on the situation. I wanted to move forward with my life. Fate has made a point of beating one single lesson into my head and it is this, "life is fragile–we are only guaranteed this very moment–make it count." I made a decision recently to do so and start dating. For the friends that I have talked to about it, you are pretty evenly split. Some of you are all for it and others think I'm making a rash decision and am opening myself up for more pain or to be taken advantage of. Let me assure you that the logical rational side of me is still firmly intact and in control. Okay, there has admittedly been a little heart denting in this process, but I've got a pretty good handle on it now. I won't settle just to be with someone instead of alone.

I had already gone out with a couple people when I'm informed that my company wished to present a Lifetime Achievement Award to Tom at our National Sales Meeting. I was asked to design it, accept it and speak. Upon hearing this, I am simultaneously honored, terrified and angry. It was truly a wonderful gesture and I do appreciate it greatly, but I am terrified of public speaking, though I apparently do a good job of disguising that as I'm actually speaking. Mainly though, I was a little angry that almost no one seemed to realize the potential to reopen wounds. To me this was essentially another memorial service...people speaking about his life, showing the video compilation of our life together...I didn't really want to go through this again, not now that I was moving forward. I knew everyone's heart was in the right place and I felt compelled to go through with it. If not for me, then for Tom's brother, Paul, who was flying in to attend.

I didn't sleep the night before, rewrote my speech 4 times and tweaked wording right up until a few hours before the presentation. I stood in front of the mirror in the hotel room and read it over and over out loud until I no longer stumbled over the words. When the video began playing, I could see the tears in those around me. I was determined to hold it together. I had planned to watch the video about 20 times beforehand to make myself somewhat immune to the content, but I hadn't. I tapped my foot nervously, staring down periodically at my piece of paper just wishing it was over, but my favorite picture came up. You know, the one that makes everyone laugh, Tom eating surrounded by the fur-kids evenly spaced in a semi-circle around him staring at the plate...cat, dog, cat, dog, dog...I can't help but smile at that.

It was finally time for me. I walked up to the podium and was nearly overcome by the thunderous applause. Though I felt I didn't deserve it. This was Tom's award. I do know it was to show support for me, for my loss. It was appreciated. I even made you laugh. You don't know how I agonized about putting Tom's joke about us working together in there. I wondered if it was appropriate, but in the end it felt right to me, so I left it in. Once I began talking, the anxiety diminished greatly. I was determined to do the best job I could for Paul, for Tom...and for me. I don't regret it. My fear was that if I didn't speak, that I would regret.

I felt solemn the next day, not sad so much as introspective. Was it the right decision to move on with my life? I will always love him, but my heart still has room. Fate's lesson has not fallen on deaf ears. So I take control of the reins and ride forward into the unknown.

----

About the Painting:

"Sky Waves"
4 feet wide by 16" high
Acrylic on Masonite board

$1,495

When my sister and I were driving home from seeing the building where we had Tom's service, this was the scene before us as we turned into my development.