“It is not when I am going to meet him, but when I am just turning away and leaving him alone, that I discover that God is”- Thoreau
I discovered the above quote when I was in my late twenties. Difficult to decipher at the time, I’ve come to better understand it’s meaning as it continues to reveal itself to me in different ways, and it’s partly due to this that it’s one of my favorites. The other reason is that, for me, it represents the existence of signs.
I have always been a strong believer in signs. I’m sure it began as a child. An early and avid reader, everything that made a story enthralling: foreshadowing, lessons learned, a fitting conclusion, just made me want to consume more. Stories- accounts of lives- that made sense. Admittedly, I read a lot of fiction, but over time as I expanded my reading, I found that inexplicable things could be found in non-fiction as well. And then later, finding my way as an artist: All my life, creating has always called to me. I am always looking for a new methods to explore, and ways to grow- emotionally and spiritually- in order to express myself. For me, the mixed-media approach appeals, and satisfies, both exigencies. With my abilities to plot out a piece, I get to call the shots, orchestrating the process. However, harmonizing all the different types of media in one piece leaves a lot up to chance, making the outcome somewhat unknown, and, in some cases, taking me places I’d never intended to go. Resultantly, I see creating as a sign: finding balance in chaos, while reminding me that I am not in charge.
Being aware of all the constant unrest and upheaval in the world right now, I find I need this comfort more than ever. With technology ushering in a new reality faster perhaps than we humans can adjust to, there’s no escaping the constant transition taking place, at every level. Almost everything I create has something to communicate, and most of it positive, but lately, I find myself drawn to thoughts and ideas that, while thought-provoking and perhaps difficult to digest, try to communicate hope, even when despair seems to be the only answer.
None of this led me to answer a call for art put out by Duke University in 2017, a nascent exhibit created by students Ariana Eily and Casey Lindberg. A collaborative effort that pairs artists with scientists, the purpose of the exhibit is to demonstrate that art and science are not as disparate as some might think. It looked like fun, something interesting and new to try. My personal point of view: art and science are no different from each other than you and I. Both contain unique beauty, and mystery. After submitting my name and answering the questions that came in the paperwork, I was accepted in to the show, and paired with mathematician John Malik after conveying my interest in the human brain and how much of it we have yet to understand. I was sent a brief description of his focus and an image of a reading; phase information extracted from an electrocardiogram signal using Fourier transform. Later, I came to understand it as information about the human heart, recorded in the space between two random heartbeats, belonging to a fisherman in Taiwan. John’s captured image(Phases Of The Heart) showed all the aberrations existing between two heart beats, occurrences so small, happening in such a short time frame, that, until now, they’d gone unnoticed. The visual rendering of that moment was a thing of beauty: in stark black and white, the aberrations showed up as bursts of white against the black background, some so close together they formed images in the negative space. Other than knowing that John had had some acclaim submitting this very image we were going to collaborate on(Envisioning the Invisible; Duke Engineering Graduate Student Council), I had no expectations for our meeting other than hearing about John’s work as a post grad student. We arranged to meet in a Starbucks to introduce and learn more about each other. Having seen the image before meeting John, I had seen something in the negative space and came to the meeting awe-inspired. However, I needed to hear what John had to say about his work and understand his motivations before I could feel right about getting started on our collaboration.
A young man in his mid twenties, and recently down from Canada, John’s journey to working in research in signal processing and manifold learning was as indirect as mine to art was focused. Obviously in another sphere of intelligence, even on my best day, understanding the intricacies of his focus would be a stretch for me, but there was one thing he said that jumped out at me: most of what he did was a just a crazy game that mathematicians made up to give what they discovered meaning, to bring order from the chaos.(Later, I was to discover that the above quote of Thoreau’s came from the same series of letters that also included a theory about mathematicians: “When the mathematician would solve a difficult problem, he first frees the equation of all incumbrances, and reduces it to its simplest terms.”) I had arrived for our meeting already in a heady, artistic blur, but when he said that, my whole body went into overdrive. For the rest of our time together I had to harness my attention like never before, concentrate HARD, so as not to miss anything he was saying. Once it was over, I was free to let the creative euphoria take over and I remained in that daze for the next three days.
At the same time all this was taking place, our youngest daughter was reading “A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”, a well known and revered science fiction novel by Doug Adams. I knew of it, had never read it, but figured someday I would. Having recently finished it herself, she was urging me to read it because of how much she’d liked it. And, of course, once read, we could watch the movie (a true readers’ approach!)!
So I had begun the book, keeping it on my bedside table, reading a few pages at a time before going to sleep. Since I generally read a number of books at once, depending on where I am in the house, if I’m close to an end, well, that book takes precedence. Relegated to nighttime, HHGTTG kept getting pushed to the back of the line. Actually, reading everything was taking longer since I was dividing my time between creating at my interpretation of John’s work, and my family (My husband and I have six kids, two of whom are still at home.). Departing from the way I usually approach my work, I had decided that I wanted to try and reproduce it as accurately as I could from a representational standpoint while doing it in color. For me, the image had already established itself as a representation of Life, and life is colorful, so I had plotted out that many layers of different acrylic colors would be used. This led to having to sketch out the image so that all the aberrations, or ‘stars’(John’s word), could be seen, mapped as accurately as possible. Realizing early on that freehand and eyeballing wasn’t going to cut it, I employed a ruler to measure out the spaces, left to right, keeping in mind where the ‘stars’ fell within those lines. That initial euphoric feeling still lingered, but with the process underway, it had moved to the background, like an afterthought. Definitely there, but not as bright, not humming quite as loud. It all came rushing back full force when I’d finished blocking out the lines that made up the image between the heartbeats. The total of lines came to 42, a significant number in an irreverent book that was taking forever to read (much to my daughter’s chagrin). Perhaps known best amongst sci-fi fans, and having to do with the Meaning of Life, I’ve since learned that the number 42 is spiritually significant in other cultures as well, and I now find myself encountering this number often.
At this point, progress with the painting was going fairly well: the process was going according to plan- until it wasn’t. To get the layered effect I’d wanted, I had applied liquid rubber to mask out the areas I wanted to remain white and now it wouldn’t come off using the typical means: an eraser. Later I figured out that despite having used the substance for years, I hadn’t applied it correctly. At the time, all I knew was I couldn’t get it off, and with the deadline looming there was no time to start over. I bought every type of eraser I could find, and, ultimately convinced that only natural rubber was the key, even tried rubber bands to remove the mask material. No go. But after frantically trying for three days straight to remove it, I had some time to figure out what to do next, as my pre-arthritic hands had suffered from my brutal approach in trying to remove the latex. During that interim, I realized picking it off was the only way, and began to remove it with an x-acto, bit by painstaking bit. My hands were an absolute mess by the time it was clean, but it had been worth it.
However, now there was a new issue: rendered in color, the images in the negative space, created by the lines and stars, were practically gone. Back at the start, to ‘bring out’ those images, I had sketched out the negative space, emphasizing the images that reminded me of ancient fertility figures I‘d learned about in art history class, figures that looked like two adults reaching out for an infant suspended between them. To me, they’d even taken on male/female characteristics, and had come to represent a family, but one thing I knew for sure, regardless of gender, and societal agendas, these images were People: male, female, young, old; and being able to see them clearly had been the whole point and now they couldn’t be seen! Caught up in a tailspin of defeat and despair that the piece wasn’t going as it was supposed to, I put it aside again- time I really didn’t have- to figure out what it was I was supposed to do.
While all this tangible drama was going on, an existential aspect had begun to bug me: Why was I even doing this- reproducing another’s work? As an artist, I’m always checking in on myself, provoking myself into understanding what my motivation is. I’m not one for the business side of it, the practical route. That approach drains me of creativity, leaving me anxious and depressed. I just want to create what moves me, whatever idea makes itself known and won’t let me rest until I’ve done whatever it asks of me, as best I can. I’ve been called an outsider artist before (a term I had to look up), but Labels can take on a life of their own-whether it’s intended or not- and I don’t care much for labels. Regardless of opinion or interest, I’m going to make my art. I want to create what’s inside of me, show it to others, and whatever comes of it, comes of it. That’s not easy to make others understand. More often than not, people will tell you their ideas about how to turn what I do-really what anybody does- into a lucrative means to justify one’s purpose. I get it, am even guilty of having done it: trying to ‘fix’ things for others. But when I started to gain outside recognition as an artist, in order to remain true to my inspiration and protect this little corner of myself, I have become even more mindful of what speaks to me. Thankfully, those close to me: my husband, my kids, respect that, even seem to understand it. I am very fortunate.
Back to the situation at hand: Being in that place of things not going according to plan, feeling lost, is no picnic. I’m not a whole lot of fun to be around when I’m in this place. Trying to figure how to proceed literally, and trying figure out if it was worth it figuratively, I’d stare the painting intermittently for long periods of time, not knowing what to do, but not wanting to give up. I’d try to see the images, wondering if I’d gotten all the mask off or if I needed to try something new- I just couldn’t figure out what. And by this time, I’d mounted it to a piece of birch board, and had limited my alternatives that much more…
Again, it was during this time of contemplation and indecision that inspiration came. When I had been immersed in removing the rubber latex, I would have to sit and look at it upside down for hours. At some point, I’d gotten used to looking at it upside down, and now had to remind my preoccupied self to position it “the right way”. One day I came out of ‘solution mode’, and it struck me that the stars of light from that altered perspective looked like People, moving ever-upward, and all of a sudden the euphoria came again, washing over me, as strong as before. I knew then how to proceed: present the piece upside down- making it my own, not just a copy- and coming to the conclusion that perhaps the Three Figures were now obscured so that the multitudes they represented could now come into the foreground. This piece was about everyone, everywhere, living their lives while one person(you, me, or, as it happened, my husband, two years earlier), was hooked up to a machine, viewing evidence of their mortality. The piece wasn’t just about the three represented, and it had to be able to communicate that.
Having seen this, things now moved quickly. I laid down amalgamated gold leaf to halo the stars, adorning the ‘heads’ of those represented, and applied sealant. It seemed finished too quickly, and I had to reassure myself that it really was complete, that there was nothing left to “do” to it and leave it alone, trusting that it was what it was supposed to be: A representation of all humanity caught in a fragment of Time, moving forward in life as well as ‘moving up’, ie: a reminder that as we go along, regardless of what situation we find ourselves in, we’re really all just trying the best we can at Life. It’s just a matter of perspective- what looks easy to me can be someone else’s first time, and vice versa. My grandmother used to say, “Comparisons are odious”, and it’s true. Comparison can keep us from being supportive for each other at our worst moments, and sharing in each other’s joy at our best, so busy are we comparing.
Now that a year has passed, “The Heart, In Its Phases” represents much for me. Yes, I’ve gotten good feedback since its completion, even been approached about creating another from a different reading, but, myself- I don’t know. All the components in this piece make sense while still remaining a mystery, and, frankly, it seems like it came from Somewhere Else, so different is it from my typical interpretations. All I see is the journey made, and the reassurance it brings, the reaffirmation of something Greater than myself. A sign that, whether at the micro-, or macrocosm level, we must all keep on trying to open ourselves to the idea that, really, most everyone, everywhere, is trying to do their best in this life.
Molly Cassidy 2019
photo courtesy of Ian Cassidy
