JULES OLiTSKI
How My Art Gets Made
A
N ARTIST'S VISION
does not strike him in the face with an "Aha!
Now I see the truth!"
It
lies quiescent; it waits. He finds it as his
art gets made. I'm tempted to say that an artist's vision is his
view of reality: how it works, how it's made, its structure, its design, its
composition, its architecture. As G.K. Chesterton said, "It is the land–
scape of his dreams."
In the midsixties I was teaching at Bennington College. One day, I
said to the students, "Let's go over to Shaftsbury and visit Ken Noland
in his studio." They were eager to go. They knew who Ken was, of
course . I say "of course" because Bennington art students famously
know everything about art, even before they arrive at the college. Any–
way, off we went.
At that time Anthony Caro was teaching at the college and happily
joined us. So there we were in the noted artist's studio, surrounded by
Ken's recent work lining the walls. My students made themselves com–
fortable, sprawled out on the floor, or slumped against a wall. I intro–
duced them to Ken. Ken, a former teacher and a generous man,
welcomed the opportunity our visit afforded. But silence. My students,
all female, usually all too vocal sat slumped, sprawled, forlornly silent.
What to do. Tony, maybe to save the situation, turned to me and said,
"What I would want for my sculpture is to emphasize its density, its
materiality." This remark provoked from me what seemed, at the
moment, an amused if not facetious response: "Well, Tony, what I
would like in my painting is simply a spray of color that hangs li ke a
cloud, but does not lose its shape."
Fortunately my remark got a laugh from the students and they
began to talk, telling us what art is really about. All in all a successful
afternoon .
This "spray of color": I had in fact a year before tried using spray
cans, the kind one buys at a hardware store, but the paintings didn't
work, or so I thought at the time. I had continued working with paint
rollers, merging colors into one another.
It
occurred to me as I lay in bed
that night after the visit to Noland's studio that a spray gun might speak
