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04/02/2007: "Out Among the English" by Ellen Fish
One of my favorite films is “Witness,” starring Harrison Ford. The plot revolves around a Philadelphia police detective, Ford, who moves in with an Amish family. Ford is protecting a young Amish widow and her young son who has witnessed a murder when they had traveled outside of their Amish world to Philadelphia on an excursion. Predictably, Ford and the widow fall in love. But Ford eventually leaves the Amish community because both realize that their lives are too disparate for a relationship to work. As Ford departs, the widow’s father-in-law, who was initially opposed to Ford’s living with the family, tells Ford: “You be careful out among the English.” The English are, of course, the non-Amish or just plain folks back in the city. The old man is really telling Ford that he has accepted Ford into the Amish community.
I often find myself feeling that I am “out among the English.” As a professional artist for more than 40 years, I have always been aware that my lifestyle is different from the lifestyles of individuals who have 9-5 jobs. I am also in very different financial strata than those who are employed by corporations and civil service or those who own small (or even big) businesses. I am selling myself through my work. My ideas, my perspectives, my dreams and hopes are expressed on canvas or paper and presented for sale to the public. It is true that I have something tangible to show the public unlike, for example actors, who are also selling their talent. We, who are in the arts, put it on the line and seek to make a living from our ability to project ourselves into the lives of others. However, I frequently feel that many consider artists lightweights in the job market. After all, rather than getting on a train every morning at 6.30 to head for Manhattan, I sit down at my computer or throw on jeans and go up to my studio. I do not have to survive office life or spend my day in a commercial environment with all the negatives (and/or positives) that those situations require. I am in the comfort of my own home. If I want to take a break or visit my daughter and granddaughter for lunch, I alone make that decision. I don’t battle the home commute or worry about my vacation days. I can take a vacation whenever I please.
I have not taken a real vacation, the kind during which you rest and relax, the kind during which fun is always foremost, since I was about 12. Every trip or down time I have allowed myself is focused on art. When my daughter and son were of age, we took two trips to Europe. The five weeks we spent traveling each time were planned around the paintings I wanted to see and the areas in which I wanted to sketch. My family is very, very supportive. Other family vacations were in New Hampshire where my parents lived and where I painted, sketched or photographed daily. I do not have week-ends off as most office workers do. I work seven days a week. Work is simply incorporated into my life because it is my life. I do not regret one second of my decision to live the way in which I do because I really have no choice. Creating art is who I am.
One of the aspects of my life that truly causes me to feel that I am out among the English is the reactions of most people when I tell them that I am an artist. “Oh! I’m an artist, too! (Or my mother, father, friend, etc. paints.) I took a class last summer, but then I got busy with my other things. I must find out when that class is given.” It is almost impossible to explain that being an artist is a daily struggle of staggering output of oneself. It is as tedious, exhausting and brain-numbing as any assembly line job and as exhilarating , joyful and fulfilling as finding oil or making a killing in the market. It is discovering cures and making license plates all at once. All alone, the artist must produce masterpieces for him/herself and for everyone else as well: the buying public, the galleries and museums, the family (to justify why much of the family budget and much of the time spent by Mom goes into art). The responsibilities are enormous.
I was recently asked by a high school friend of 40 years when I am going to retire from art. She is looking forward to retiring after 25 years of teaching. I was dumbstruck. “When I die,” I replied. How else could I retire from art!
The issue of different outlooks on life was really slammed home at a recent social event. My husband and I were at a neighborhood house party for the first time in years. Usually our social life revolves around art events, occasionally seeing old friends or more frequent family outings with our adult children and grandchild. We each have our own lives and interests. This lifestyle suits us. However, we attended a party hosted by a golfing buddy of my husband’s with anticipation because we like him very much. I arrived late because I was working, which I had previously explained to my hosts with their complete understanding. I entered the house to find the men in the den, watching a sporting event on TV and the women sitting in a circle in the living room. I joined the women, all of whom had traditional jobs or were retired from traditional careers. They spoke of travel, shopping, children, restaurants and books that they had recently read. I tried to contribute to the conversation, but had little in common to share. Everyone was friendly and the food and wine were great. Everyone knew that I am an artist and one woman’s husband had actually purchased one of my pastels. While I had met the husband several times when he played cards in my house, I had never met the wife. She commented on the fact that she loved my work, but in a sentence disposed of our very tenuous association. I did not feel uncomfortable at the party; rather, I felt that I was out among the English. While tales of Caribbean cruises, Broadway shows and best sellers swirled around me, all I could think of were the gigs of RAM my new computer will have, the filbert brushes I need for my current painting and the colors of metallic compound I want to order for a new project I’m considering. I sat quietly, munching my party food and observed the English, who were very nice, decent and productive people. I stayed later than any other guest because it was a treat for me to be completely away from my art: an out of body experience. I then went home to work for a few hours at my art, my life.
