(Jean Requa Lubin with Throwing a Wild Horse Fit)
During a panel discussion at our art gallery, I posed a question to artist friends, gallery owners and patrons.
“As an artist, if you knew that your art somehow would never — ever — be seen by anyone, would you still paint?”
As an artist, I had the extraordinary good fortune, fairly early in my art life, with my husband to own and operate our own gallery in Idyllwild, a small mountain town just above Palm Springs, California. My easel was located in the main gallery so that patrons could view not only the work exhibited on the walls but stand nearby and watch my painting process. I found that I didn’t mind their inquisitive gazing and possible questions or interruptions — it was always a pleasant way to start an art conversation.
With fondness I remember a fellow artist, known for his delightful sense of humor, who would take a position behind me, suddenly raising a pointed finger toward a section of my wet canvas and declare, “Mis-take!” And we would both always collapse in laughter.
I think of myself as a morning person, but I more easily do my best work as the day progresses, finding “the zone” only later in the afternoon, until finally, in order to close the gallery at 5pm or 6pm, my husband would threaten to remove the paintbrush from my hand.
Getting back to the panel discussion and my posed question to the group, one dear artist friend immediately responded, “Well, of course I would still paint! It is so rewarding and nourishing for my soul.”
I pondered her response and similar answers by other members in the gathering. My dear friend then turned to me and asked, “How about you, Jean? Would you still paint?”
“I don’t know,” I stammered. I could just hear my inner critic chastising me. “What do you mean you don’t know? If you’re a true artist, you must paint — the artist within you demands it. You can’t NOT paint!”
So what does this mean, I think to myself, full of self-doubt. Am I NOT a real artist? Not worthy? I DO love vibrant, lush oil color. It has texture and buttery gloss. And when dry, it is delightful to touch and does not have to be covered with a layer of glass, beyond reach. With my fingertips I’ll sometimes caress an older painting, still in my possession, and remember back to the time of its creation — how I felt about it, the composition problems that needed to be solved — perhaps the awards it received.
When we have the opportunity to travel to New York, my first stop is the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It’s like entering a holy place, a cathedral of art. Inside the heavy glass doors, I raise my eyes to the marble columns, soaring ceiling and central staircase that beckons me to visit old friends — John Singer Sargent’s Madam X, Jules Bastien-Lepage’s Joan of Arc or Alexandre Cabanel’s Echo. I certainly cannot touch these paintings, but my eyes closely examine each brushstroke to decipher and understand every nuance and subtlety.
Watercolor painter Frederic Whitaker said, “The world expects from the artist beauty, truth, inspiration, edification or leadership.”
So, would I still paint if no one were to ever see it? And I still am not sure of my answer. I want the viewer to see through my eyes, to see my interpretation of a verdant landscape, a massive mountain peak, the lush beauty of spring flowers or the strength and grace of a running horse. I want to add some beauty or knowledge to our world. Can I inspire someone or add beauty to their day, maybe even suggest a new idea or thought? Are these grandiose concepts? Perhaps so, but they’re important, I think.
The benefit to me is the delight of creation, but my art is always for you, the viewer.