Incensed, Imitation, Immune, Integrity

Last summer when I first walked into the building where I’d soon be renting an art space, I was immediately struck by the camaraderie and welcoming attitude of the handful of artists I had met that day. These included a young woman who had her own line of hand painted pottery. She was very attractive in a conventional sense – svelte, blonde, blue eyed, with a bubbly personality and a dazzling smile. The product of a Southern upbringing, she was raised to be accommodating, non-confrontational and cheerful no matter what, maintaining a relentlessly positive view of each of her life’s circumstances and of other people’s behavior. She was all about fun – creating it, having it – and she did not seem to have room in her life for anything that would get in the way of a good time. She seemed immune to regrets, remorse or self-awareness of any kind. I have to admit that even I, a cynical, introspective and blunt-speaking Easterner was seduced by her charisma and upbeat persona. She was, in a sense, my Karmic opposite. Once I moved into the building, I often found myself wandering into her studio to chat about art, business and life and, perhaps, to have some of her unabated optimism and cheer rub off on me.

When she announced a few months ago that she’d be leaving to start another business in a new location, many in my building were crestfallen. “What will we do without her?” a few wondered out loud, anticipating the energetic void that she would leave behind.

All of the artists in the building strive to express themselves creatively, spending hours in their studios with paints, brushes, canvases and/or cameras, exploring new themes and subject matters or revisiting the same ones to create and deepen a body of work. And so many of us were wary and a bit disappointed when our soon-to-be departing studio mate revealed her new business: teaching groups of people how to reproduce particular paintings. Each session would focus on a different image – perhaps Monday nights one could sign up to paint apples, and Tuesdays one could sign up to paint a mountain scene, etc. And she was not shy about appropriating paintings she found online, tweaking them and using them as example paintings for her own prospective students/customers.

“What about copyright issues?” I asked her one day after popping into her studio where I saw her whipping up another painting for her new business.

“Oh, everyone does this,” she said blithely, as if appropriating another artist’s image was perfectly OK. As if to prove her point, she showed me four or five highly similar images online, created by different artists. It was hard to tell which was the original, which were derivative.

I returned to my studio feeling uncomfortable with her approach but knowing that it was really none of my business. Better to focus my attention on my own art. And taking a cue from her playbook, I tried to come up with a positive interpretation of what she was doing. Maybe her business, by having people copy art, would make the painting process accessible enough to encourage more people to do it for real.

And so I had left the matter rest gently, until she came by the other day with a postcard invitation for her grand opening. And one of the images on the card was, unmistakably, a reproduction of a painting created by one of the artists in our building, someone whose distinctive work is also hung in local galleries.

I could feel my inner prosecutor awakening from a long slumber, ready to argue, fists pumping in the air and spittle flying from her lips, in front of an imaginary judge that this woman, who stole an image from an established artist with whom she shared a cordial relationship for years, deserved nothing less than handing over all of her assets to the aggrieved party, public censure and being forced to close her business.

Yes, my inner prosecutor got a little worked up.

I shared my outrage with some others in my building and they pointed out that it was still none of my business. They said the only person who had a right to confront the Copycat was the artist whose work had been copied.

Even after the artist called the Copycat and asked her to remove that painting from her “portfolio”, which she agreed to do after explaining that she had made the painting out of admiration for the artist’s style, my inner prosecutor was still having a hard time dismissing this case. Considering she is a Southern Belle, the Copycat had a lot of chutzpah to, at times, refer to people in the building as family, say how hard it was going to be for her to leave all of us, and then "borrow" someone else’s art as she sashayed her mini-skirted butt out the door. And, ironically, as someone noted, the Copycat knocked off one of the few artists in the building who had the financial means and connections to pursue the matter legally if she had chosen that route.

What on earth had she been thinking?

Most likely she had not been.

I’ve been trying to shift into a softer position while identifying the source of my outrage. It is not simply that her lack of integrity offended me; she also symbolized some of what I detest in our culture, a culture that produces and rewards people who, like spiders, can spin a good story with flashing white smiles, flattering words and promises of fun or money.

Intermission, Inspiration

There will be a pause in this blog for about a week while I'll be on a mosaics mission, sans computer. Tomorrow I head to warm and sunny Florida for the Society of American Mosaic Artists annual summit in Miami. I've never been to such an event and I expect it will be populated with colorful characters and highly colorful art, all of which I hope will inspire me to keep experimenting with this fascinating and extraordinarily time intensive medium. This past week I spent many hours at my studio, absorbed and engrossed by the process of cutting and arranging tiny pieces of ceramic and glass into various patterns.

Interrupt Not

Interrupt Not. That is the basic message of an anonymous plea called "Listen", which has shown up in my life twice in the last few weeks. I received a copy at the end of the Hoffman retreat and again last night, at the first meeting of a group that explores a spiritual path to creativity via exercises in the book The Artist's Way. For much of my life I've prided myself on being a good listener, even though - as I now realize - I've often listened with an agenda or with a need to then be able to say something clever or wise to the person who was speaking. That isn't necessarily listening. I've also been guilty of interrupting people; often my comments are motivated by my own need to be heard. And as someone who has often had trouble expressing herself verbally, I've often been interrupted by supposedly well-meaning family members and friends who think I have finished speaking because, simply, I have stopped to take a breath or choose a word or because they simply can't wait another minute to impart wisdom or to chime in with a humorous aside.

It was incredibly refreshing and empowering yesterday evening to be given 10 whole uninterrupted minutes in which to explain to the group why I had signed up for the workshop. Knowing that no one would cut me off, interject a cute comment or otherwise divert the attention to themselves, I was able to say things that I had never said aloud before. To protect my own confidentiality, I will not divulge those remarks here. When the 10 minutes were up, I was asked if I wanted to receive feedback, or not. I said yes. Again, it was empowering to be given that choice. And the interesting thing about allowing someone to speak for 10 (or 15 or 5) minutes without inserting one's two cents is that, chances are, by they time the speaker is done, that previously irresistible urge to give a certain bit of feedback will have dissipated, allowing the listener to offer a deeper level of response.

I invite anyone - particularly those who have felt that they are not truly being heard - to ask their spouse, partner, siblings and friends to try this experiment with them. Set a timer for 10 minutes, allowing one person to speak without interruption for that time. Then the listener has 2 minutes to reflect back what s/he heard, without offering advice or reassurance. It is also refreshing to be a listener, knowing that one is not expected to jump in and save the other person. This kind of listening can also be done by phone. I feel fortunate that I have a reflective listening "buddy" with whom I speak each week on the telephone. We each get 15 minutes to speak and the other person periodically reflects back what has been said, without offering commentary of any kind. This arrangement is organized and facilitated by the Zen Monastery Peace Center in California, if anyone else would like to look into it.

The text of "Listen" follows - author is Anonymous.

When I ask you to listen to me and you start giving me advice, you have not done what I asked.

When I ask you to listen to me and you begin to tell me why I should not feel that way, you are trampling on my feelngs.

When I ask you to listen to me and you feel you have to do something to solve my problem, you have failed me.

Listen! All I ask is that you listen - not talk, or do. Just hear me.

Advice is cheap; a buck will get you Dear Abby and Dr. Joyce Brothers in the same paper.

I can do for myself; I'm not helpless - I may be discouraged and faltering, but not helpless.

When you do something for me that I can and need to do for myself, you contribute to my fear and inadequacy, but......

When you accept as a simple fact that I do feel what I feel, no matter how irrational it appears, then I can quite trying to convince you, and get about the business of understanding what's behind this feeling. When that's clear, the answers are obvious and I don't need advice. "Irrational" feelings make more sense when we understand what's behind them.

Perhaps that's why prayer works, sometimes, for some people - because God is mute and S/He doesn't give advice or try to fix us. God just listens and lets us work it out for ourselves.

So please listen and just hear me. And then, if you want to talk, wait a minute for your turn, and I'll listen to you.

Ingenious

A woman with a striped hat and large smile came into my studio today and announced that she's seen my jewelry at shows around the area. Taking another look at her, I realized that I'd probably seen her before, or at least I'd seen her distinctive blue and white hat which flopped over her eyes.

"Your bracelets look so delicious!" she exclaimed in admiration.

"Thank you, but I wouldn't recommend eating them," I replied. "They look much better on your wrist."

She poked around my studio some more. Another woman, who had seen one of my necklaces at a silent auction, had made a beeline for my bigger necklaces and was in the process of trying on half a dozen. Having a sale - this time a rather generous one -brings in the serious shoppers.

Ms. Floppy Hat ogled my basket of Czech glass bracelets and cooed, "Your jewelry is just so joyful and cheerful!" I wished that I could be so joyful and cheerful, rather than having my jewelry act as my positive emotional ambassador to the world.

But, she sighed, "I can't spend the money right now."

"But this is the least expensive they've been," I explained. "If you buy two, you get another one free. That's 33 percent off. Now is a great time to buy them."

"You're right," she sighed, agreeing with my logic in theory.

She took a final appreciative look around and loudly declared that my combinations of beads were "ingenious."

Her pleasure in my jewelry and her comment - especially the use of an "I" word - made my day. And it didn't hurt that the other woman expressed her enjoyment by purchasing four necklaces and a pair of earrings. Acting on one's good taste is, perhaps, another kind of ingenuity.