In my last post, I discussed the impact of seeing the the Metropolitan Opera‘s production of Lulu, and how it has influenced my own work.

To be influenced is to engage so deeply with a piece, with a work of art, that it becomes part of you, infecting your point of view, challenging values or just becoming a catalyst for opening yourself to greater experiences. Francis Bacon, the 20th-century British painter, one of my most personally treasured artists, was heavily influenced and inspired by the 17th-century Spanish painter Diego Velázquez and had a reproduction of his “Portrait of Pope Innocent X” hanging in his studio when he made his “Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X”. Not only was he influenced by the elements in the composition, such as the throne, the robes, and the posture of the Pope but also by the Pope’s facial expression and gestures. The darkness implied in Velázquez’s Pope has been transformed into articulated agony in Bacon’s version. There is no subtle anguish but, instead, loud and clearly expressed emotional torture. Through his engagement and encounter with Velázquez’s painting, Bacon created a portrait of Pope Innocent X that is undeniably his own. His powerful ability to communicate emotion through his application of paint, his choice of colors, and his way of making marks on the canvas leaves no doubt that this painting was made by Francis Bacon. While clearly influenced by Velázquez, the result is, without question, original.

I find that many young artists are concerned with being “original,” as if this is the defining test for being a “real” artist, without really understanding what “original” actually means. Original works are not innovations or subjects that have not been used before. It is not that simple. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe addressed the complexity of originality when he said, “The most original authors of today are original not because they create something new but because they are capable of saying such things as if they had never been said before.”

The first time I saw any quantity of Bacon’s work was in 1989 at the Hirshhorn Museum in Washington, D.C. I was immediately struck by the passion of his expressions. Even the paint itself was screaming with intensity. The raw, honest texture of these emotions startled me, confronted me, and ultimately pushed me. He put into his paintings feelings I thought I was surely the only one to experience. Through his work, I found connection to the deepest parts of myself, beyond the scope of mere words. By the time I had finished viewing the exhibition, Bacon’s work had become a part of me, incorporated into my psyche. Jeanette Winterson expressed this perfectly when she stated, “True art, when it happens to us, challenges the ‘I’ that we are.” (Art Objects: Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery, Vintage, 1996) Bacon inspired and dared me to push myself in my own work, as far as I could go, and then to keep going.

I didn’t see the depth of this influence until five years later when I made “Untitled #5978,” an image clearly informed by Bacon’s work. The resemblance to a number of his paintings depicting a scream was unintentional, the result of a long, intuitive exploration, yet it was such an exciting moment for me when I saw this effect. In “Untitled #5078,” the reflection of the lower jaw is prominent on the surface of the water and makes the mouth look like it is double-hinged. The head above the water does not show because it is night and there is no light on it. The scream is coming from so deep in the figure’s gut that her jaw appears to be blown wide apart. The body is twisted in just the perfect way to maximize the force of the scream. The scream is not in anger at something but rather the expression of psychic agony, a release. Bacon’s scream in “Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion” (c. 1944) articulates similar primal raw intensity. In both Bacon’s painting and my photograph, the scream represents pure expression and emotion; there does not appear to be any cognitive activity within. These forms are a mass of muscle, gut, neck, and, of course, an ear and a mouth with a full set of teeth. Without a frontal cortex, both figures lack the ability to think, allowing their reactions to be unrestrained by the power of reason.

Did Bacon’s paintings inform my work? Did his images give form to (or animate) my own feelings? Yes, there is no doubt. After I had experienced his images, my awareness of my self was heightened, and I was enlightened to powerful yet previously undefined feelings and thoughts. Bacon’s paintings dared me to be honest with myself in a raw and real way. This is one of the greatest functions of art – to express complex emotion that cannot be conveyed in a linear or verbal way. Bacon’s work affected me deeply, and it would eventually have a profound impact on my work as well. I discovered “Untitled #5978” through my own exploration, and I was able to see it because of the way Bacon’s work had become a part of my psyche. It was not an attempt to copy but rather was an encounter – the result of an intuitive process – as all of my images are. My debt to Bacon is undeniable as is my admiration. The compelling passion of his paintings pushed me in my own process to be daring and to reach as deep within myself as possible, as he did.

So, if being “original” is not to be the first to do something, yet if being heavily influenced by other artworks does not preclude originality, then what does it mean to be original?

The word “original” is defined as “Of or pertaining to the origin, beginning, or earliest stage of something; source of something; from which something arises The wonderful paradox of originality is that it is at once something unique and individual (“the earliest stage”) while at the same time it is connected with the source. How can something derive from a “source” and simultaneously be unique? The fascinating paradox of originality makes sense in the context of Carl Jung’s ideas of the collective unconscious. If we think of the “source” as the collective unconscious, then the word “original” refers to an encounter with the deepest parts of our humanity – the pool of collective symbols, archetypes, knowledge, and wisdom that is accessible to all humanity. The most profound connections we can make with ourselves and with others is through this “source” in which we encounter the very core of our own humanity and which is shared with every other human being.

Untitled #1-22-15-288 is another recent image from my last “binge shooting” session with Carl and Cory. The figure is deformed, with its legs appearing as stumps and an odd sensation that his body is caving in on itself. He is in transition, caught in a spontaneous moment of struggle as his body morphs into something else, perhaps a corpse?

Many of the images from this shoot are quite dark, but this is nothing new. Darkness has always shown up in my images, especially in working with the mirrors.

In 1991 I had the good fortunate to meet Stanley, a young schizophrenic man, and I asked him if he wanted to model for me. When I showed him my work and talked about what I wanted to do, he enthusiastically agreed to be part of the project.   We had a weekly appointment to photograph.  I would show Stanley the images we had made the week before, and we would talk about them: what they meant to me and what they meant to him.  We talked openly about the psychological quality of the work, and about his condition.  I realized that his personal experiences could push my work to a new level. The conversations we had offered me insight and understanding into both Stanley and the photographs.  Stanley and I worked together for about a year, and the images we made grew deeper and darker as the trust and understanding between us grew.

Photographing Stanley alone, without another model, enabled me to concentrate on just him.  I worked with integrating his position and gestures with the marks on the mirrors, as in Untitled #3757.  I had always admired the way that painters could be expressive with the way they applied the paint and realized that the marks on the mirror could also be quite expressive, especially when combined in a visually striking way with the gesture of the model.

I cannot explain how these images came to be so psychologically challenging.  Initially it was not easy to photograph Stanley: I did not want to pose or direct him too much, and he wasn’t sure what to do or how to move.  As a way to diffuse the awkward tension that was building between us, I suggested we put on some music.  Stanley loved the idea, and picked out what he wanted to listen to from my collection.  He immediately began moving with the music, and I encouraged him to relate to the marks on the mirror as he did.  He was creative and an artist, so his gestures were interesting to me.  Often I would ask him to stop, move this way or that, purely responding to the visual elements, trying to further integrate his body with the lines and marks on the mirror.  Stanley did not filter himself, he had a direct and genuine quality.   Because of his disease, he wore no public mask, so he often exposed what most people hide, leaving him raw and vulnerable. In a fascinating sort of dance, I was reacting on a visually intuitive level to his equally intuitive movements.

The symbiotic dynamic between Stanley and me led to some dark and challenging images, further enforcing the power of an intuitive creative process.  I felt these images came from someplace outside of myself.  I have known darkness intimately throughout my life, and the emotions I felt from these images were not alien to me.  At that particular time, however, they did not feel like they were mine.  I was not having any crises when these images were made; on the contrary, I was happily in a relationship and pleased with how my career was going.  There was no angst in my life at the time.  Neither were the images a recording of Stanley’s psychosis;  he was not having a breakdown when we were working together.  We never tried to illustrate the expression of any particular emotion or psychological condition, and the images consistently surprised me.

The painter Piet Mondrian (1872 – 1912) expressed the experience this way: “The position of the artist is humble.  He is essentially a channel”  – accessing an expression from a deeper place, or what Jung would call the collective unconscious.  This is exactly what was happening when Stanley and I shot together.  The darkness and intensity of the images we produced was unintentional, but expressed real and recognizable pain.  Once again, letting go of trying to consciously control the meaning of the image, rather letting my eyes lead and using the camera as a tool to explore, opened me to the power of intuition.

The session this image (#3725) was made was like any other shoot with Stanley—spontaneously creating the experience and the images together.  He danced with the music we had playing while I worked on incorporating his movements in a visually cohesive way with the marks on the mirror.  Yet this image takes us over the edge of sanity, into a type of psychosis, a disorienting place full of unimaginable terrors where the protective masks and the egos are demolished. The word psychosis is literally a disorder of the soul. This image illustrates an agonizing condition, a spiritual crisis of prolonged darkness and profound loneliness Christians refer to as the “Dark Night of the Soul”.  The figure could be the embodiment of evil, a contortion of the soul so twisted the essence becomes perverted into malevolence.  It is shocking and disturbing because we all recognize this state, whether we want to look at it or not.  Perhaps this makes it uncomfortable because it forces us to confront the potential evil in all of us.  Untitled #3725 does not refer directly to the darkest moments of my life, or of Stanley’s, but of darkness itself, the darkness we all know.

This is the power, and also the danger, of the intuitive process.  It does, if followed, eventually lead directly to some deep, core stuff, and that core stuff can be quite dark. I have often been tempted to turn my back and quit; the process has been hideously difficult at times, uncomfortably revealing at others.  It has also been the most profoundly satisfying endeavor that has opened up the world to me and brought my life meaning and great joy.

Since being involved in the art world for over the past 30 years, many things have changed.  Trends come and go, notions of what is considered “good” art vary, and what is popular in contemporary art fluctuates.  While these things are constantly being redefined, I’ve continued to question and contemplate the function of art in our world.  Here are some of my thoughts:

Art can take us to the unknown – to a place we don’t have any experience of – and give us that experience.

We can have an experience of tragedy without personal tragedy.  The Greeks called this catharsis, which comes from the greek word for cleansing or purging.   Greek tragedies were opportunities to vicariously experience deep feelings.   For example, Sophocles’ Oedipus let’s us experience murder, incest, suicide and self-mutilation. We feel the horror, but ultimately we don’t have to suffer the consequences.  We can experience genuine and deep feelings without actually living the event or circumstances that elicit these emotions. All Great Art is an invitation to experience – fear, joy, anxiety, confrontation, vulnerability, ecstasy and rapture.  It is not a description or documentation of an event or feeling – it IS the event or feeling.

Art is a way of expanding and deepening awareness.

It is not a way to confirm what we already know, but to push beyond that.  We want to try to understand what is beyond our reach.  Art gives us the opportunity to access unconscious material by enlightening the rich areas of our mind that otherwise would not be available to us.  Through a work of art, we can peek into our unconscious and make what we discover there part of our awareness, enriching our lives and our understanding of our world.

Art is a way of communicating that which is beyond the limitations of language.  

Karen Armstrong states that “Music goes beyond the reach of words: it is not about anything” (The Case for God, Anchor; Reprint edition).  She goes on to say that through music we can have experiences that do not translate to verbal communication.  The same can be said of all forms of art- we listen to music for the feelings evoked, we read books and watch movies for the connections we make.  Through art, we can transcend the inadequacies of language and communicate on a deeper, more meaningful level.

In all of these years considering the value and function of art, the common thread seems to be clear: it’s all about connection.  Art connects us to each other, to ourselves, and to our humanity.  It connects us to our past, present, and future.  We are unique in our capacity for self awareness, our capability to grapple with the meaning of life and our mortality.  Art provides us with a means to explore our understanding of ourselves and the world around us.  It enables us to share our discoveries with each other in profound and [deeply personal] ways.  Through art, we are offered insights into who we are and why we’re here, and it enables us to fully experience our extraordinary and complex existence.