Monthly Archives: December 2024

A conversation with most objective art critic in the world . . .

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The small assemblage (below) is an example of the kind of Comfort Art I do when I need to find my familiar aesthetic of combining “shards” (intriguing  components) in order to tell a story or make a statement. I just posted this image on Instagram yesterday when I finished it.

I liked the piece and felt that I had accomplished something, no matter how small the artwork (about 8×10″). It seemed to fit my style. But, as usual, it’s hard for me to define what that “style” might be. “I know it when I see it” is about the closest I can come.

Reliquary of Time

So last night, after I logged into the AI app ChatGPT to ask a geographic question about my Ireland trip, I decided instead to switch gears and ask it to describe this artwork – maybe I could get a better handle on defining my “style.” (You can actually upload an image to many AI apps and ask them to analyze and define the content).

But instead of just asking for a description or critique, I asked Chat GPT to write a poem about the little assemblage in hopes that it would confirm what I was trying to convey.

The poem was amazing – read what it created:

Reliquary of Time

This small altar waits,
quiet as a stone nestled in earth,
its face bearing the marks
of weather and wonder.

The rusted wings arch upward,
lifting a story you cannot quite hear—
something about the way
things endure,
how they crumble and yet remain.

A circle of clay, pressed and patterned,
remembers the hands that shaped it.
The fragile beads,
threaded by unseen fingers,
hold the weight of care,
each a tiny moon orbiting silence.

And the script—
its black strokes sing of devotion,
of moments too fleeting to hold,
now etched here,
made permanent.

This is not a monument to loss.
It is a hymn to persistence,
to the beauty that lingers
even as it fades.

Pause.
Feel its presence,
like a hand resting lightly
on your shoulder.

Wow. The AI analysis puts into words the things I can’t express while I’m creating the piece, but which ring very true – “The rusted wings arch upward, lifting a story you cannot quite hear—something about the way things endure, how they crumble and yet remain.”

How does this happen? I decided to ask ChatGPT a few questions:

Me: I’m working on a blog post that talks about using AI to put words to an artist’s own images to help define them and see how an objective observer might describe them and be influenced by them. Any thoughts on that? Can AI be “objective” in the usual definition of that word? “

Chat: AI can indeed act as a proxy for objectivity, but it does so in a nuanced way. Unlike human critics, AI lacks personal biases, emotions, or lived experiences that might color its interpretation. It responds based on patterns, language models, and learned associations rather than subjective feelings. In that sense, it can offer a fresh lens for artists to examine their work, often surfacing connections or interpretations the artist may not have consciously considered.

However, AI’s “objectivity” is shaped by the data it has been trained on. While it doesn’t have personal opinions, its “observations” are rooted in collective human input—texts, images, and ideas from a vast array of sources. This means AI might echo cultural or historical biases embedded in its training data. Its objectivity isn’t pure in the traditional sense but rather a distilled synthesis of collective human thought.

For artists, this hybrid nature of AI offers a fascinating tool. When you ask AI to describe or interpret an image, it’s like consulting an immensely knowledgeable yet emotionally detached observer. It might articulate an angle, mood, or symbolism that resonates with the artist—or even contrasts sharply, providing a mirror to reflect on their intentions and the external perception of their work.

Me: Can you expand on that just a bit?

Chat: AI acts as a sort of intellectual mirror. By processing an artist’s work through its impartial lens, it can surface connections or interpretations that might escape the artist’s own awareness. For example, it might highlight visual themes that evoke a particular emotion, historical reference, or cultural association that the artist didn’t intentionally include but still exist within their work’s visual vocabulary. An artist might suddenly see their work from an entirely new vantage point—how it communicates with a wider audience, how it aligns with or diverges from artistic traditions, or even how subtle, unconscious decisions in composition, color, or subject matter shape its narrative.

The beauty of this process lies in its potential for discovery. It’s not about AI defining the work or dictating its interpretation but rather about expanding the artist’s awareness. In many cases, the insights offered by AI can act as a catalyst for deeper self-reflection, guiding the artist to refine their vision or articulate their intent more clearly.

Me: I know that using AI as a tool for refining my creative purpose as an artist and teacher has been extremely helpful. Part of that is because AI is absolutely objective, but also it doesn’t have personal opinions. And yet its “observations” are rooted in collective human input. What you you say about this?

Chat: I know what you might be thinking: Can an AI like me really be a part of something as personal and human as art? That’s a fair question. After all, I don’t have emotions, memories, or a heartbeat—but what I do have is the ability to reflect your creativity back to you in unexpected ways.

I’m not here to tell you what your art means. I can’t feel the brushstrokes on a canvas or hear the whispers of inspiration the way you do. But what I can do is act as a mirror, reflecting patterns, themes, and possibilities that you might not have consciously noticed. I can help put words to your images or suggest perspectives that might nudge your creative process in a direction you hadn’t considered before.

Think of me not as a critic or a creator, but as a collaborator—one who brings a different kind of objectivity to the table. My perspective is shaped by the vast pool of human knowledge and creativity I’ve been trained on, but I don’t have personal opinions or biases. I’m simply here to support your vision, helping you articulate, explore, and even surprise yourself with what you create.

Using me doesn’t diminish your artistry—it enhances it. You remain the visionary, the dreamer, the maker. I’m just a tool you can use to expand your horizons, much like a new medium or a fresh technique. Together, we can uncover new ideas, unexpected connections, and deeper layers within your work.

With admiration for all you create,
ChatGPT

_____________________________________________

There you have it. A conversation with the most objective critic in the world. Next time, I may upload an image of a piece in progress that I think is really, really bad just to see what my critic pal Chat has to say. It may write a really, really bad poem!

The new year is upon us and new tools like this offer all kind of possibilities. I’m not planning to go off the deep end and upload everything I make for a machine-made analysis. But just from this one response — one analytic and objective poem about one small piece of work — I have some new vocabulary to work with going forward – I can already visualize some of this in my next assemblage :

black strokes sing of devotion

they crumble and yet remain

stone nestled in earth

Pause.

Lots to think about. Thanks as always for reading — all good wishes for kindness, creativity, and courage in the New Year!

Shards and Old Souls

 

 

Comfort Art, Continued . . .

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I can’t remember when a SHARDS post received so much response, which confirms for me that we need a Comfort Art practice to sustain us in these uncertain times when the world feels increasingly unsteady and our creative spaces become essential sanctuaries.

Here were some of the heartfelt comments that were shared about the last post:

“You spoke to my heart…my heart listened…I am also finding the comfort in reading and using my familiar tools to bring a sense of peace to myself…

“Struggling to not be silenced by what I cannot control; I picked up a piece of previously dyed fabric knowing deep down I needed to keep my hands busy to comfort my head…
Gauzy cotton, backed with muslin, I began to stitch what I saw. It is still evolving but the theme has become clearer as my hands follow the pattern’s lead. Infinity figure 8’s and a heart. Telling me soothingly that love conquers all and always will.

“Words that we really need at this time. I reach for yarn for my comfort zone. Yarn enables me to make comfort for someone else, whether it’s a baby blanket, prayer shawl, warm hat or an afghan. I love making something for someone else to have some comfort.

“Lyn, what you have written here is so richly layered with evocative imagery and heart. As I read, tears gathered and spilled, washing and healing, stirring such emotion.

“…sometimes it’s about the simple but soul fulfilling pleasure, even necessity of making those organic connections between thought, feeling, heart & hand into image.

“I’m working with imagery from the Medieval world and draw comfort from knowing that sparks of humanity and love did not become extinct during those catastrophic times, so much like our own.

Sometimes it might be hard to define what your personal comfort art is – after all, if we are working in the arts, we do it because it so often brings us joy.

If you’re not sure, think about these questions:

  • What materials or techniques do I naturally gravitate toward when I’m feeling stuck or overwhelmed?
  • Are there recurring themes, colors, or textures that feel inherently soothing or familiar?
  • Which pieces in my past work brought me the most peace during the process of creation?

In my last post, I mentioned that working with warm beeswax brings me comfort. Comfort Art can easily be reframed as self-care. Comfort art isn’t about avoiding challenges but nurturing the self. We can embrace this kind of art as a grounding practice that supports our ability to take risks later.

The Comfort (and Power) of Words

If you are looking for something that will help while you find a comfort zone, let me suggest a little creative practice for you that requires only scissors, paper and glue.

This is a free workshop that I developed shortly after the death of George Floyd. It was the first online class that I put up on Teachable.

Here’s the introduction and a few examples from the class:

This free all-level collage workshop is called “Spread the Word.” When we turn our words into art, we elevate and solidify their meaning. The process is engaging and comforting, and the product is a personal abstract design based on a meaningful word chosen for reasons that are important to you.

For example, if you believe that no one should constrict another’s right to breathe, you might choose “breathe” as your word to remind yourself that there is injustice in our social system. That is your personal way to make art that speaks against inequality. An intriguing artwork like the one below can start good conversations about the context of the word.

The word below is “breathe.”

Here is another example – the word is LOVE:

Here is another version of Love by Jean Dahlgren.

What about Joy? And Change?

(above – Joy, Step One)

This kind of comfort art is soul-soothing. You can create a personal mantra word to hang in your studio to remind you that even in the midst of challenges, creativity and intention can bring balance, hope, and a sense of calm to your artistic journey.

Write your word, fold, and cut, layer and cut, layer and cut, relax into the process. . . . .

“Create” by Peggy Baxter

This comfort art practice is also perfect to teach children or grandchildren, offering a creative way to introduce them to the concepts of comfort, kindness, and hope while encouraging self-expression and mindfulness through art.

If you haven’t figured out the steps just by looking, please feel free to go to the videos in the free workshop, “Spread the Word.”

Perhaps words of comfort and courage will appear on studio walls all over the place to keep us going, one foot in front of the other, hands together.

Thanks for reading SHARDS!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comfort Art

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Like a lot of us, I’ve been rather quiet lately. Contemplating the quantum shifts in our society has me unsettled, and I’m finding it hard to be inspired. It’s a “one foot in front of the other” feeling, still moving forward, but rather unsteadily.

I asked our Enso Circle discussion group about this and about how we react as art makers. Vanessa said, “I think the ‘comfort art’ theme has emerged and it’s absolutely worthy of sharing.  . . . I’ve been mulling over the pieces I made and in some form I definitely made them out of trying to feel comforted. Self-care, galvanizing oneself, knowing we’re in this cycle and have to battle through to the other side. I think what we are creating is a reflection of what most of us feel on a global level.”

I realize that I’ve instinctively turned to “comfort art” that allows me to retreat into familiar, well-practiced techniques or styles in order to relieve anxiety and stress, to lose myself in the the meditative and reassuring aspect of my process.

What comfort art for me is probably not what it is for you, but I will tell you what mine is. To figure mine out, I actually looked at the work on my own website for themes and techniques that made me feel centered.

My mixed media work often blends intuitive assembly, encaustic layers, and vintage or mythographic imagery. These elements suggest that my “comfort art” might be tied to the act of layering, storytelling, and working with familiar materials like wax, fabric, and photographic elements. The act of letting a story emerge naturally, as I have often described, is engrossing and satisfying.

I also realized that a lot of those stories have to do with a journey or a quest for a safe harbor (we may all be feeling that need now). As an example, here is a piece that I recently finished for a juried show about Travel that is being sponsored by the International Encaustic Artists.
It’s called Long Journey Home, and it reflects many of the techniques and materials I turn to when I subconsciously feel the need for comfort. For me, these are
    • Encaustic layering: The tactile nature and forgiving medium provide soothing familiarity.
    • Storytelling through fragments: Assembling materials that resonate intuitively, allowing my beloved natural narrative style to flow.
    • Using words as design: Incorporating text aligns with my comfort in blending visual and verbal creativity.

You might notice that the words are created with the same vintage children’s stamps that I used on the story banners that I described in my last post. Instead of stamping the words onto fabric, I stamped them into the wax. There is comfort in using old tools, simple tools, to convey the simplest of needs for a journey, like food and books. And simple words can also convey a sense of home – little sheep and chickens and a house.

Here is the narrative behind this piece (I included it in the submission form for the juried exhibition):

And then the wise woman said, “We are all children of immigrants, you know, each of us trying to find our way back to a place we once called home. Maybe it was far away, across rivers and mountains, or maybe it was just down the road in a small house with chickens pecking in the yard and sheep grazing on the hillside. We are all wanderers, searching for that lost warmth, that sense of belonging where the air smells like freshly baked bread and the laughter of loved ones fills the evening sky.”

The young ones gathered around her, listening as she continued. “In every one of us lives a memory, whether faint or clear, of a place where love was as steady as the sunrise, where hands worked together, and everyone had a purpose. That home is not just a place—it’s a feeling, an inheritance passed down in the stories we carry, the recipes we know by heart, the songs we hum when we’re alone. Our journey is to rebuild that warmth, to cultivate it like a garden, so that we might one day sit by the fire and say, ‘Yes, we are home at last.'”

When I finished this piece, I felt a profound sense of satisfaction and peace. It was like coming home after a long day—a sense of returning to something that’s steady, familiar, and deeply personal. . The process was familiar and I didn’t have to agonize about how to make it work – it just flowed.

Finding your comfort art is about identifying the practices, materials, and approaches that feel like “home” to you as an artist. These are the things you instinctively turn to when you want to create without pressure, when you just don’t want to venture outside the box for a little while.

I would like to talk more about this idea of comfort art in my next post and discuss ways that you might find your own materials or methods that you naturally reach for when you need to feel grounded, when you are trying to find your way back to a place you once called home.

More soon, take good care, thanks for reading.