When Humanity Reminisces - The Relevance of Figurative Work
I recently lost someone I love.
When I am ambushed by grief, I console myself with my inheritance—a lifetime of memories and a recycled cardboard box filled to the brim with old, poorly cared for photographs. Through the years, those photographs meant little to nothing to me. At times I was annoyed by the camera in my face and was usually embarrassed when I noticed my poorly framed prints hanging on the wall. I remember my brother and I begging to take our portraits down, though most of them were cast aside long before they ever found a frame.
As I sit with grief, these photos take on a whole new value. Someone who loved me cared enough to print them and store them for decades. Some of them leave me smiling, others make me laugh out loud, and a select few make me turn red in anger or blush with shame. Those photos are memories of a story—my story—captured and preserved for future generations. That tattered cardboard box, the last gift from a loved one, now holds a sacred place in my heart.
I am a figurative artist, in a time when only a select few recognize its relevance. Few celebrate the work as an acceptable art form, and even fewer would consider ‘figurative artist’ a real occupation.
A few weeks ago, I dropped my son at piano lessons where a nicely dressed, well-spoken woman asked me my profession… and then erupted into laughter. With a smirk, she asked, “How does that work?” and followed with, “How much money do you make?”
Though I should be used to it, she caught me off guard, and I was taken back by the line of questioning. ‘I have food you know nothing about…’ drifted through my mind, and I remind myself the provision of heaven takes many forms. At some point, I believe I will have to answer for the work I do or don’t create in my lifetime—so I smiled and stayed polite.
The questioning hurt, like a bullet which entered, ricocheted around, and never exited. I carry it with me still, but I forgive it—along with all the others like it spoken in innocent arrogance. I acknowledge my new friend is right; in a sense, the art is not highly relevant today. It does not match anyone’s sofa, and Hobby Lobby is not contacting me for mass production. The work is similar to those old photographs my brother and I never really wanted on the wall.
The value of the work is somewhat subjective, yet, it begs to be created. All the while, people line up against it, rolling their eyes, annoyed by the camera in their face. But I stand in hope, along with my fellow artists, that when humanity finds a quiet moment to reminisce, it will embrace its inheritance and unbox its figurative work. Those moments of our timeless story we tried our best to capture will tug at our spirits in a way we cannot explain, making us smile, or laugh aloud, or turn away in shame. And what was once deemed of little value will—ever so slowly—become priceless beyond measure.