The art of abstraction: a lesson in capturing and understanding essence

I think abstract art gets a bad rap. While I haven't surveyed the populace, in passing conversations and casual eavesdropping I've done in shops and galleries, I often hear snippy snippets of opinion that are along of the lines of:

 "I could do that with my eyes closed."

"My toddler paints better than that."

 "What is that supposed to be?"

As an abstract artist myself, this does irk me a little bit. But, to be fair, I sort of get it. Abstract art can be tricky like that. It's kind of like when astronomers point to constellations in the sky and insist that Ursa Major truly does look like a bear. I look at the map and think that it might take a couple martinis and no shortage of mental gymnastics for me to agree. And why is that? Well, because you said the damn thing looked like a bear, so that's what I'm looking for, and I don't see it. I think that same thought process explains a lot of the disconnect people experience with abstract art. To look for the concrete in a world composed of essence can only end in disappointment. Essentially, the art of abstraction is the successful distillation of essence from the subject. Instead of pointing to the flowers in the field, you invite the viewer to breathe in their perfume. Let's break it down.

Search out any textbook’s definition of abstract art and you'll quickly find that it doesn't aim to represent the physical world like realism does. Instead, the focus is placed on line, shape, form, color, value, and texture. It may have an underlying meaning. It may not. Either way, it highlights the dynamic elements at play rather than highlighting a static object or scene at center stage. To give you a visual, I've taken a collection of photos from around the woods where I live. See below:

Were my painting style to lean more toward realism, I would probably assemble these snapshots into some kind of woodland tableau and highlight the physical characteristics that speak to me and create dynamics between the objects themselves. However, I tend to paint in a more abstract style, so I'm going to extract the elemental characteristics (i.e., line, shape, form, color, value, and texture) that I notice in order to compose a painting that captures the essence of the woodlands, like the one below:

Ode to the Woodlands*

While the black-eyed Susans are identifiable, the background of this painting is an abstract collage of the notable (to me) elements from the other photos. The splashes of red hiding in the background hint an ever-present blush of life in the forest (like strawberries and apples). The chaotic reedy strokes are a nod to the grasses that other flora and fauna tunnel up and out of. The shadowy blue vignette alludes to the dark and enigmatic nature of the woods. The composition is meant to have a swirling effect that envelopes the flowers like a nest. The flowers themselves spring forth in wild spontaneity. I honestly hadn’t set out to paint black-eyed Susans but they literally kept blooming out of my paint brush. In distilling these abstract characteristics that caught my attention, I attempted to capture the essence of my experience walking through the woodlands.

*Click here to watch this piece being painted from start to finish on my YouTube channel.

So even though I often witness abstract art being misjudged, I'm far enough along in my creative journey to not be too worried about whether or not everyone likes it. The reaction a viewer has to a piece of art doesn't determine whether it's good or bad. That's entirely subjective and somewhat contextual. And honestly, judging art as good or bad is kind of a waste of time. A more fruitful and meaningful question that I’d invite others to ask would be, “what's it doing?” Celebrating beauty? Challenging perspective? Drawing you into an experience? Creating atmosphere? Even if what I've painted for public display isn't everyone's proverbial cup of tea, if they are at least able to connect to what's happening in the piece, I count it as a success in capturing the essence of my subject. And when I walk the corridors of an art gallery as a viewer myself, I always remember to ask not “what is it?” Instead I ask, “what is it doing?” “What was it made for?” “What is its essence?” Just like that, I see it. A blur of blue, yellow, and red paint smeared across a canvas is suddenly a poppy field as I sink into the opium of sleep, and Ursa Major is no longer an amorphous blob of stars but a compass to guide my way.