Becoming an artist: Part two: Evoking Emotion

As a small boy I wanted to be an artist when I grew up.  I had dreams of selling art at a roadside stand like I had seen others do with watermelons in the summertime.  But, as I grew older, art didn’t seem like a viable path to the “American Dream” of a house and a car and so on and so on.  I don’t remember anyone discouraging me or encouraging me.  I recall just making my mind up myself.  After earning a degree at University of Wisconsin-Platteville, I entered the workforce and felt my fair share of ups and downs.  At one point after making something for myself and posting it on facebook, people started referring to me as “the artist.”  I was very uncomfortable with this title.  How does one get that title?  Is there some threshold that once crossed, you obtain the title artist?  If you think you have an answer, please, connect with me.  I was spending my time making things, yes.  I was selling these made things, sure.  Is this it?  I wasn’t convinced.

During the social unrest of the summer of 2020 I was struggling.  It was hard to see the images I was seeing.  It was hard not to think about them.  The images, the people, the lives lost, the screaming, the gunshots in my neighborhood....my town was burning.  People were getting stretched.  Families were getting torn.  It was hard to witness.  Writing this brings tears to my eyes even now removed from it.  We as a global community had a rough year all around.  Is this the worst it’s ever been or do we just get a better view of it with our front row seats of the internet in the palm of our hands?  Is this the beginning of the end?  Many people have thought this throughout time, but the centuries just keep rolling by.

I was paralyzed one morning.  I saw a 50 year old retired Navy Sailor walk across a police line with his hands down and get beaten repeatedly with a baton by an unidentified federal agent.  Struck over and over again.  The Navy Sailor just took the beating with his hands down.  Another agent in the group then sprayed him with pepper spray.  I was frozen in my tracks.  I had to call my cousin, an Army Reservist.  I called my buddy, a border officer.  I called a County Sheriff friend and a guy on the Capital Department.  I had to talk through my feelings.  I was also looking for answers of why and who these “unidentified agents” were.  It felt like a scary time.  Was my cousin going to be asked to beat unarmed people with their hands down?  I know that the media only shows you what they want, I get that, but I was paralyzed all the same.  I typically go about my work making things that I am confident will sell.  It’s a safe way to spend my energy.  But this morning was different.  I decided that I was going to speak my mind that day and if I didn’t get paid, that was fine.  I was paralyzed anyway remember?

I went out to my shop (sometimes I call it “my studio” when I feel the need to sound fancy.)  I put pencil to paper to create the “fist” that has represented many things:  Resistance, Solidarity, Unity and most recently it has been the symbol for the black lives matter movement.  The fist has been used as a symbol all over this earth.  It has been used by both “whites” and “blacks” by the Irish, by the French, by nationalists, by socialists, loyalists, polyists, and oppositionists, communists, and feminists, even librarians.  I made the piece that needed to come out of me.  People were shouting all over the map and this is how I spoke that day.  I finished it and like most every other day, I posted a picture of it.  What happened next was the life changing part.

Before I could even copy and paste my post to a second platform, a young woman, whom I had never met or even was aware of had shared a personal story of her own struggles with racism both as a child in small town middle America and as an adult in what many people would consider a pretty forward leaning city (Madison, Wis.)  She also wanted to buy the piece.  After reading of her personal struggles and what this piece meant to her, I was broken for the second time that day.  I was in a heap on my shop floor in utter pieces.  I could barely respond to her message through the tears in my eyes.  I didn’t want to charge money for this piece.  I didn’t want to charge HER for this piece.  I fought all day internally about the money part of this.  It was a statement.  It was a feeling.  It wasn’t a product like most everything I had created before this.  It was an all day battle, but in the end I convinced myself of one thing.  You did it.  You actually did it.  Don’t be ashamed of it!  This is what you do!  You spoke from your heart and this is what you said.  THIS is what art IS!  My voice, through my medium, impacted people. It made them react. That’s art. Art evokes an emotion in its viewer. The response from this piece was like nothing I had ever experienced before.  Of course people have liked my work in the past.  But this was something far far more powerful and instant.  The messages.  The encouragement.  The emotions that were spoken, pulled and shared were on a different level than I was aware could be unearthed from a vision and an afternoon with a pneumatic air nailer in hand.  So, yes, here lies the answer I had sought out for years.  There is a threshold that one passes through and I just passed through it.

Is there a certificate that comes with this passage like the one I received after paying the final dues of my college program? (yes, the thing you get on the stage is blank until you cut the check.)  Something I can hang on my wall as proof of some plateau reached?  Yes.  I got the first negative criticism of my work.  The follower said, “you lost me” and unfollowed my social feed.  I wasn’t sure how to handle this.  Do I start an internet rant with some stranger?  Do I make a mockery of this person for the sake of entertaining my fans?  I wasn’t sure. This is new territory for me.  But, before I could even formulate a response, another follower politely tried to engage this person in a conversation about racism.  I was honored and this gesture was yet another patch to sew on my uniform.  This defending follower of mine and I have formed a bond over this that is quite strong.  It feels good.  It feels much more solid than a “like” or a “love this.” The takeaway here is that the art evoked a strong reaction. That’s a win. It did its job. Secondly, a conversation about a societal ailment had a platform. There was a space created for people to talk out a real problem and others to observe it. Two wins in my book.

This day of mine, this experience opened my eyes to what being an artist is.  It made me realize that I have a voice and that WE have a platform.  I have created a space that conversations can and are being had.  For years I wasn’t comfortable with the title of artist because I was safely making the shape of Wisconsin thirty different ways because people liked them and they sold and I could pay my mortgage and put tires on my truck, but I didn’t feel like I was really creating.  I wasn’t speaking.  I was crafting.  The difference between an artist and a craftsman is a subtle one but there is a difference.  I have a whole new way of thinking about what I do for a living and you can expect me to speak a whole lot more in the future.  My medium is reclaimed materials.  Most notably six Dane County barns and the St. Raphael Cathedral steeple of the Archdiocese of Madison.  I have saved 59 tons of material from our local landfill to date.  You can find my work on my website www.flagsoverwisconsin.com and on Instagram @flagsoverwisconsin and facebook at Flags Over Wisconsin.  Here are a few of my pieces from last summer as well.