I personally value equality and people who try to claim superiority whether because of the accident of their I.Q., their personal wealth, a marriage that boosted their social staus, or some actual accomplishment, to me are less than human. I once wrote about art critics as ‘a little lower than angels but far above the herd of humanity’ and I now would add ‘as well as the lowly creators they dissect’. Critics make their reputation and status riding or flying on the backs of actual creators. In many cases, books will be reviewed by other writers of the same genre, but the critic who does not write, paint, compose, film, photograph or create anything himself/herself/itself is a parasite who needs a host to exist or prosper. A very clever and discerning parasite sometimes, even a potential Kingmaker, but not an actual creator.
One of my closest and dearest friends was a critic. His name was John Gross, and he worked both in the States and in England for various publications, and as a critic of different branches of the arts. He had one of the most brilliant minds I ever encountered, and Oxford asked him to take charge of some of its collections. I believe Essays and Comic Verse were two of these. He wrote book reviews and theatre reviews. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of literature, art, film, theatre, and history, but he himself felt that all of his qualifications and accomplishments would count no more than a grain of sand if he did not write a book of his own.
Ultimately, he wrote two in the last decades of his life. I believe he died fairly content because he did that in the end.
Why did he not write fiction when he loved literature with a great passion? He confessed to me that he did not have the courage. He so feared his own kind, the Critics, who very well could tear his brainchild to shreds. I swear this is the Truth. Having devoted decades to examining, slicing and dicing the creative works of others, he feared the attacks his work might elicit should he put pen to paper and show the world his own soul.
When he wrote his own books ultimately, they were not fiction. One was a study of the character of Shylock through the ages, and the other was a Memoir.
Recently, I have seen two ridiculous adverts on social media that pertain to the ‘career’ of criticism. One is directed towards the elderly, to encourage them to throw good money after bad basically in paying some institution for validation in the form of a degree. The other is some sort of business that offers to promote YOUR art to ‘qualified collectors’. This in fact disgusts me. In fact, both of these advertising avenues make me a bit cross. (I have included screenshots of both below.)
I am no one, apart from having enjoyed some international fame in the world of gaming for the strategy guides I wrote. This is quite different from creating games or reviewing and criticisng them. Strategy guides exist as an aid to gamers to allow them the fullest experience of any game. I became involved by accident, when my eight year old daughter begged for my assistance in a farming game called ‘Harvest Moon’. One aspect of the game is Courtship and Marriage, and she wanted her character to marry Ann, but was having no success at all.
Half the time, she could not find Ann, and when she did, and gave Ann a gift, Ann never responded with anything positive. So I had to play the game myself, and I began to write my experiences in the form of a journal. At some point, I saw that IGN had published guides and tips for this game. What I saw instantly was an error. I wrote to the guy in charge of this division to point out the error, and the rest is history. I wrote over 250 strategy guides for them as Freyashawk.
This is neither here nor there, but it is interesting to add when I corresponded with a close childhood friend during this period, I discovered he had worked on a couple of legendary games that included ‘The Oregon Trail’ and he initially misunderstood what I did and thought I reviewed games. He was disgusted by that, until I clarified to him that what ai actually did was write strategy guides. At once, his disgust changed to respect. So he thought as little of critics as I did.
This chapter of my memoirs was not intended to embrace my career as a guide writer, but rather the effects of physical disability on my life choices. In fact, my immersion in games was a result of increasing disability and the wonderful illusion of mobility and freedom that games offered. I will discuss that more in snother chapter. What I wanted to do now was explore abstract painting, and how it has changed my perceptions and vision.
My grandfather could paint in any style, with all the formal training he had combined with natural talent. He had a business and personal connection with a famous artist named Benjamin Brown. I now believe Brown was the reason my grandfather dabbled in the creation of detailed drawings and etchings, because Benjamin Brown built some of his reputation on this type of art. He was a master of oil and watercolour as well. In fact, my childhood was blessed in that my family had works by Benjamin Brown on our walls as well as works by my grandfather.
My mother was a collector of art as well as everything else that came into her hands by any means. She always declared that she pursued Art History and her ultimate lifelong involvement in the ‘art world’ as a docent, a teacher, working at a gallery for art instead of cash, sitting on committees for various institutions and charities for one reason and one reason alone: she was dedicated to the promotion of my grandfather’s Art.
Regrettably, she never had the time to do anything of substance with respect to Condé’s art. My daughter even offered to make his art the subject of her Art History thesis, but the timing was ‘not convenient’. I realised finally that her real smbition was one she achieved: being recognised locally as a patron of the Arts, working for social esteem and status instead of money and somehow somewhat losing sight of the real legacy left by my grandfather to the world.
As co-beneficiary of my mother’s estate, I theoretically inherited half of the art works she owned, but multiple thefts and actual burglaries have resulted in the loss of many of the paintings I loved. I am the eldest grandchild, and the one who actually watched my grandfather paint, and yet I have less than any of my cousins and far less than my sister, although we were intended to share equally in all things.
Initially, the disclosure of the magnitude of these thefts, being robbed essentially of my birthright, almost destroyed me. It combined not the loss only of the physical inheritance, but the betrayals by my family as well as those committed by a very old friend whom I once loved. I was incandescent with rage, overwhelmed by grief... well, I could describe all the negative reactions infinitely, but I came to realise I was destroying my own psyche by dwelling in the tent of bereavement and loss.
I am a forgiving individual. I always refused the option to become bitter and twisted, whatever injustice or bad luck was meted out to me. I did not want the evil in the world to infect me, to transform me or rob me of light. I have been forced to face and overcome some ugly monsters and terrifying landscapes in my life, but the past year and a half have been the most difficult paths I ever had to navigate.
I was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer at the same time my mother finally told me the truth about her medical status. She had Stage 4 lymphoma and had been told she had six months to live. She came to visit for the last time at the same time I lost a breast. The months that followed were consumed by the combination of my radiotherapy, multiple procedures and sharing her struggle and agony only through telephone conversations. That was brutal. I felt impotent and yet, she told me repeatedly and very clearly to focus on my treatment. She wanted me to survive.
I now understand there was a poisomous hidden undercurrent to this. My sister did not want me there. If I were not there physically, I would be removed from the equation.
I urged my mother to do whatever she thought best. Love has nothing to do with material gain. For me, it is objects as repositories of memory, and as proof of the power of beauty that is more important than money. To be robbed essentially of these, unique creations that were filled with emotional significance for me, and that were part of my mother’s identity as well, has been almost impossible to process. I understood her interest in local,artists, but it was the loss of my grandfather’s work has that hurt the most.
It was then that I decided to paint. Curiously, my mother always wanted me to become an artist. As some one who did not enjoy reading much, the idea of me as a writer neither pleased nor satisfied her. She really viewed her children always as somehow part of her. I suppose that is natural, but it is not in the best interest of the child to be bound tightly to a parent’s ambition or vision. I resisted. I ffelt stifled somewhat by her powerful presence. Like Sauron, she was not capable of sharing the stage with any one as an equal. One had to serve, to be a pawn rather than a Queen, and God forbid one ever should reach the other side of the board to earn a crown.
That was simply who she was. Second of seven children, carrying far too much responsibility as a child, with a father who was both despotic and a fountain of creativity and genius, who himself demanded service and unquestioning obedience... what else could she have been?
I wonder now what she would think of my newfound need to paint. I wonder if she would hate my work as much as she disliked my social satire and poetry.
I remember that, on one of her visits, she asked my daughter what she thought of an exhibit at a local museum. She hesitated, and I began to say: ‘I think it...’ My mother instantly cut me off saying, ‘I don’t care about your opinion. What you think doesn’t matter. I want to know what Freya thinks.’
My daughter was visibly horrified. I was a little taken aback myself, although I was very familiar with my mother’s manner and her belief that she was not bound by ordinary rules of courtesy or consideration. Looking back now, I wonder if she really meant to imply my opinion was worthless or simply wished to hear from Freya without any reference to a third person.
In any case, having lost the best of my grandfather’s abstracts, I have determined to create my own Condé abstract paintings.
Although my grandfather worked with different media and styles, he ultimately preferred abstract painting with oils. I have no real training, unlike him, but I did sit in his studio as a child, watching him for hours as he worked. I always loved his paintings, even though generally preferred representational art from earlier periods in history. I was not drawn naturally to the work of other abstract artists or the various schools that were born after the 18th century.
My aim here was to see through his eyes and experience what he experienced as a creator. The extent to which I have succeeded amazes me. No, my work is not brilliant. It is very flawed. At first, I did not even pay attention to those flaws. I was floundering in a vast sea of colour and texture, and I loved the adventure.
Gradually, though, I am making a little progress, at least where my own aspirations are concerned. My daughter, who has years of training, has given me great advice. She says that Art is a process, and that the process is what counts here. I am engaging with the canvas, and the oils, and trying to capture a little of that magical world that consumed my grandfather’s life to such a degree that he could not pursue anything else.
It was my daughter as well who encouraged me to frame my own work. ‘Everything looks better in a frame’ she declared. How right she was! Furthermore, framing a piece is a form of validation. It provides me with another level of interaction as well. When I look at my abstracts on the wall, new visions and stories emerge. If I hang them differently, the entire meaning shifts sometimes. It is incredibly exciting to have these conversations with my psyche, and with my imagination. Of course, I could have similar discussions with an abstract painted by a great artist, but this is far more satisfying, because it is something concrete that I actually did. For better or worse, it represents my labour.
Some people have been very kind about my art. Some people have said something like: ‘You could sell that one. I would buy it.’ That is not anything I wish to do. It is not why I paint. I am glad if some one likes it enough to pay and place it on a wall, but perhaps that is not even the truth. Perhaps it is what that individual thinks I want to hear, and it isn’t. I want the person to see something, to engage a little. I want a response that has nothing to do with acquisition or money. Do you see what I saw in my mind originally? Do you see what emerged ultimately? Do you see something I do not see? Where I am concerned, most of my work is an ongoing conversation. As long as it does not reach a dead end, it is worth pursuing. Even if I come to an end on that road, if the view is good, I will keep making the journey. Remember that I am disabled physically. I need windows that offer wide vistas. I need fuel for the imagination. I need some validation, even if it is my own, so I have a reason to keep finding new experiences.
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