A reader whose son is graduating from college with a degree in studio art asks Matt what advice he would give a 22-year-old painter at the beginning of his career.
Matt responds:
You are already giving your son something very important as he begins this lonely but wonderful life of a painter. He needs someone like you who is concerned about him but adores him whether he makes the greatest art in the world or the most horrible bullshit that ever came down the pike. There are plenty of critics out there but not a lot of cheerleaders.
He should be true to himself. We as artists shouldn’t try to be Picasso or Miro; we should try to be who we are.
The economics of art tries to duplicate the hula hoop time and time again, or some other flavor of the day. And we, as artists, look at the economic side like a great mysterious beautiful siren, pulling us down into the rocks and the death of self—because to give up your self for money, I think, is the greatest loss that an artist, either at the beginning or at the end of their life, can lose.
When you finally find your self, you never know it, but others more discerning, speculative, and insightful—the really great art critics and historians—can paw through and find those nuggets of greatness.
They won’t find it in the Xerox machine of trying to copy somebody else, but in the thrown-away drivel that the artist probably didn’t think ever needed to see the light of day. That’s what, more often than not, can expose all the artist’s wisdom and stupidity to the world.
The artist must paint for two masters: their stomach and their soul. If you ignore your stomach, you’ll die of starvation, but if you ignore your spirit, you’ll die of frustration, because you’ll never allow yourself to enter those forbidden places that others would prefer you not to.
The cloning of the individual seems to be the weapon that keeps us all in line, marching over the cliff like a bunch of lemmings to the sea. We should be the idiot going the other way, singing our song that makes no sense to anybody, except possibly ourselves.
That is not immediately apparent. A person must truly meditate about who they are, why they’re there, what they think about, does it make any sense or not, what are they trying to do in their art, and if it’s looking through magazines looking for people to copy, they may as well get a sign and put it on their head saying: “Duplicator.”
But if they are really digging through themselves, they should put another sign on their head, saying: “Pilgrim” or “Dreamer” or “Prophet.”
Many people will never find that, but it’s not in the finding, it’s in the voyage itself that the joy is perceived: the archaeological dig through yourself.
If you’re just looking at your art saying, “Oh, isn’t it great? It’s another Picasso!” then all you’re doing is blowing smoke up your own ass.
So for a 22-year-old artist just starting out, or a 45-year-old artist, or a 119-year-old artist, it comes down to: Just keep doing—and acceptance to yourself.
Remember: You are unique; therefore your art is unique. So it is written, so it will be.
LAMB