During the past week, as I've been making ATCs and art quilts and doing photography at a fiftieth wedding anniversary, and painting and writing and making collages, I seem also to have been doing some deep thinking. For some reason, at forty-two, I seem to be circling around and around this topic of originality--perhaps because I've been struggling with a sort of minor artist's block? Or perhaps because I'm at some kind of turning point in my work? I don't know, but it's definitely been on my mind--both originality and its evil twin, cliche.
As a small child, being original never crossed my mind. By virtue of simply being a child, everything I did was original. Even when I tried to play the same made-up story as the day before, it changed and morphed and became something totally new... As far as other people went--when I loved a book, I wanted the author (or someone!) to write another book just like it, right away... When I loved a picture of a horse, I would gladly have looked at forty more, just like it. As a little girl, originality in myself or other people was never an issue.
Of course, by the time I reached junior high school I had become a good little people-pleasing conformist. If the teacher wanted something done a certain way, I did it to the nth degree. Conformity and hard work, combined, makes for immense success in the public school system.
In college and while I was teaching, I saw so many young people who desperately wanted to be different--and to satisfy that craving, they dressed and coifed themselves in outlandish ways--just like twenty of their closest friends did... It struck me then (and still does) that in our society, we somehow miss the whole meaning and intent of originality.
No comments:
Post a Comment