A Mental Library
The very first artists would not have learned art from mentors or other artworks. They would have been clean slates with nothing but a DNA potential, an art gene that would distinguish them from the animal kingdom and set humanity on its path to transcendence. When kittens fearlessly bounce off walls exploring their physical reach, they demonstrate an inherent sense that they can do it. Early artists would have had something similar with which they developed their potential for visual perception. They would have been more than acute observers, not just seeing, but creating a mental library, organizing visual information into tones, lines, hues, lights, darks, shapes, and depth. Reality was their only teacher, nurturing their potential. These observations would embed themselves in the artists' minds, and they would see them everywhere.
Reality is like a stage and the players are the sun, the things, and the viewer—all interconnected. I recall a particularly idyllic summer afternoon sitting with a friend on a bench on the quay of a picturesque Norwegian harbor. We ate smoked salmon and shrimps from a local fish store while looking at the reflections made in the water by the boats and houses. He was an inquisitive collector, and we talked for hours about the optics and their causes. A ship's mast might stay relatively in place, but its reflection on the water would follow us and change in length depending on whether we sat or stood. Reality showed us what was happening. All we had to do was tune into its frequency. It is amusing to think that an elderly plein air painter calmly painting a boat scene would be the possessor of our evolutionary tool kit.
Internal Dialogs
Early craftspersons would have had skill sets for tanning, carving tools, building fire pits, and shelters. These skills would have been handed down from generation to generation, shown and taught to children and new members by experienced members of their tribe. Future artists would make use of this knowledge. I have often been struck by how many of the same mediums of charcoal and colored minerals artists still use today. When I pick up my painter's palette and grab a tube of yellow ochre or red oxide, I feel a personal connection to our ancient human roots—and I experience a quiet moment of gratitude to those people.
Tapped by their inner potential and the confirmation of their observations of reality, like the kitten launching towards a wall and testing how well it will bounce off, the first artists took the leap and started drawing, painting, and sculpting.
When these early artists began making art, they would have carried on an internal dialogue between reality, themselves, and the artworks. The artist would ask questions, reality would demonstrate, and the artwork would be the answer. I call it putting on different hats. The process would be something like this:
The artist is inspired by a vision, either imagined or seen, and begins drawing. If at any point the drawing isn't going right, it is the artwork that tells the artist “That is not right, you have redo it and a different way!” The artist corrects it and the painting approves, “Yes!” But when it doesn't work, the painting rejects the artist's attempts. Then the artist looks toward reality, a firm but fair teacher, for answers to what is missing. Calmly, reality tells the artist to look and observe that “The horses ears are more pointed, the nostrils are bigger with a lip around them, and the horse's head is ‘V’ shaped.” The artist goes back to the cave studio and makes the corrections. The painting then praises the artist, “Yes, that looks just perfect!” The artist thanks the painting. And later the painter marvels at the connection between the painting and reality.
The dialogue between the inanimate reality and the artist would have been a bit crazy yet feel tangible. I wonder: Is this a beginning of mysticism? Humans dialoguing with god?
An Evolutionary System?
The great vision scientists Jan Koenderink and Andrea Van Doorn told me, over beers in a Glasgow pub, that our eyes, in order to function, need to constantly compare and contrast minute differences in tones and hues. This need is physiologically driven, often without our awareness, with our eyes delighting in the experience at its most extreme. Think of the wonder and pleasure of watching fireworks. The opposite is also true: the eyes become bored or literally stop functioning if there are little to no tone/hue differences that they can compare. The highs and lows of our emotional responses take cues from the physical functioning of our eyes.
The artist's mind works in a similar way, but on a three-dimensional chess level. Creating an artwork is comparing and contrasting sensory perception, thoughts, and emotions, finding new connections between those pathways. As with the fireworks, when there are stimulating things to see, feel, and think about, they awaken the best of the artist.
An interesting consequence of this phenomenon is that the artist never becomes an automaton, but rather feels compelled not to repeat the exact same thing. Once one work is completed and understood, a quest for new discoveries drives the artist on. This distinguishes art from craft or from an arrowhead production line. The holy trinity of mind, emotion, and senses manifests itself in art consequently pushing the evolutionary envelope.
There is an especially good David Attenborough documentary “First Life,” which traces the physical evolution of the earliest living animals. He observes that when a predator developed a new physical weapon such as teeth, the prey would counter with a new defense system such as spikes or speed. Survival drove evolution. Was art the new weapon and defense mechanism for humans? It wasn't our physicality that drove our evolution; rather art reflected to us how our perceptual, mental, and psychological network could work together. Art gave us a mental framework that would revolutionize our ascendence over the animal kingdom.
Transmitting Knowledge over Time
Most of us have had the childhood experience of losing track of time during play. For me it was building castles in the wet sand on the beach. I would dig a hole with my hands until I hit water, then grab a fistful of the sloppy stuff and then drip drops one on top of the other. Hours later sandcastle walls and towers had been created. Either the sun went down, or my mom shouted "We are leaving now!" or a big wave came crashing down on me and my sculpture, reducing it to a shapeless mound. I would look up and wonder where the time had gone. Miraculously three or four hours had passed.
When this focused activity is supported by the right tools, vision, and confirmation from reality, the artist is transfigured. He experiences a perfect moment of being whole and part of the energy of the universe. There is the triple feeling of serene calmness, new knowledge, and creating a concrete thing. It is like combining the characteristics of a Tibetan monk, a philosopher, and a construction worker; peacefulness, thoughtfulness, and efficacy. Early humans would have held this inner feeling as a guide: whatever this art thing was, it was leading them on the right path.
The artist was sorting through the turmoil of millions of sensory perceptions, transforming a kaleidoscope of emotions, and ephemeral thoughts into a recognizable painting or sculpture that the audience could take in at a glance and hold in their hand. The art was an instantaneous summary of what was important to focus on in life, emotion, and thought. The gift of art to humanity was that it changed the paradigm from an animal reacting second by second to any stimulus to unlocking human potential to imagine future outcomes—ultimately new worlds.
These artists introduced a new and unique phenomenon that would be a monumental change for humanity—with art humans could now transmit knowledge over time. An artist who had been dead for centuries could still transfer knowledge and spirit to countless generations of descendants through art. Independent of the creator, art would console, speak to, mentor, and guide anyone receptive to it. This phenomenon started a colossal collection of human knowledge, in which future generations gained access to the combined knowledge of all of humanity.
Figure 6 Venus of Willendorf, 28,00 BC, 4 ⅜", limestone, Austria. Wikimedia Commons.
The second generation of artists had a great advantage over the first artists as they got to grow up with art. Perhaps they were familiar with them from their birth. Maybe children made wigs from hair to adorn the Willendorf Venus; perhaps she was the first Barbie doll. For teenagers art might have given solace for the crazy feelings of going through puberty. To anyone willing to look, these works would inspire and speak to their core spirit. It would let them know they were not alone in this strange quest to make art.
Before the young artist's eyes was an artwork showing them how it was done. The artwork was representing one of the greatest teaching methods: “Show and not tell.” To the sensitive artist it would feel like the art was talking to them and saying things like "Look here at this shadow and how it curves around the leg. Isn't it marvelous!"
We already discussed an artist’s dialogue between the art, himself, and reality. Now this fourth voice coming from the art made by a predecessor would be added to the conference. This would be an imaginary pal, though a real person from time gone by, who already went through the trials, tribulations, and joys that the young artist was going through or yet to experience. Knowing that someone, even dead, would have understood and related to him, would fuel the artist for weeks, months, or even for years ahead. The existence of the previous art would serve as a rebuttal to distractors, as the artist could simply point towards it and say "Someone made that!"
@Dave pearen Thank you 2xs! : )
The artwork tells the artist when it’s enough. Yes.