The Hunter

There are many number of artist types. I am a hunter. When I go into a gallery, read a book or watch a film I'm hunting. I'm looking for tools, method, technique and context that I can subvert to create new work.
I look at what has been, what is happening and what might be coming. By forging work from these elements I create something new whilst maintaining a connection and context with the world. The result is work that is familiar, new and alive.

One trait of the hunter is knowing that art doesn't exist until we find it. We trust in our instinct to find it rather than imagine it. And so the hunt is constant. I am awake to everything being a potential catalyst or element of a design,. The picture is rarely clear, rather it is ever formulating in my mind or on the page. Costume designers Jim Acheson and Kate Hawley are both hunters. Watching the way they create is like watching a detective. They search out the clues, piece them together and eventually create the story, the motive, the character. It's a thrilling process.  When a hunter works they never have a picture in their mind of the result. How can they? Every part of the process is building on the last. It is a process of discovery. The hunter doesn't know what they're going to catch until they catch it but they are very good at tracking their prey.

I know many artists who have struggled in the hunt. I too get impatient and work in the same uncertainty when results don't materialise as quickly as I would like. My hunt for greater art is a much longer journey than designing just one set or film. It might be a lifetime obsession. Artists often live with uncertainty but take confidence only from the signs they read and a knowing that they're on the right path. In response to a conversation from this blog around 'the hunt' an artist shared with me this poem. The poem expresses 'What it is' to be in the hunt for something that cannot yet be defined.

What it is

It is

whatever it is

that stirs the house

of your heart,

that shares

your hunger,

your thirst,

your urge all day

to hear more

than your own voice

voicing its foolishness

It is 

whatever it is

in your hands

that slithers away,

whatever can only be

glimpsed, sudden

or sharp, but tuneless,

bass notes, not

melody

you were born

knowing

you would have to learn

whatever it would take

and even to learn 

what to make of it

It is not

the words

in your throat

not even

your honest intention

when you open 

your mouth

It is 

whatever it is

that no longer speaks

that longs to speak

whatever it is 

that trembles

-- Andrea Hollander Budy