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On self awareness, the creative process and  visual essays: Marshall Arisman

Self proclaimed illustrator and storyteller, not only he’s a great example of how far staying true to yourself and to your perspective on art takes you a long way (long enough to be considered one, if not, the pioneer of modern illustration).A teacher and storyteller, the way he speaks about himself is easily relatable on a personal level. 

Born in Jamestown, a small town in upstate New York (known for a thousand psychos and being the place where “nobody dies” according to the BBC) the landscape of his youth gave him a really different perspective on life, that made itself evident as he was trying to find himself as an artist in the 1960’s New York. By the time he was in his early twenties, he tried experimenting with all sorts of techniques, indulging in art movements in vogue at the time (pop art, abstract painting, fluxus). However, this movements, to him, were nothing but becoming what they were supposedly criticizing; “pop art was in essence doing what it pretended to be agains, becoming a commercial market” were his words when describing this period. It the heyday of expressionist and surreal graphic work. Non of this spoke to him due to the circumstances in which he grew up, away from pop culture and into a more traditional and simple way of living. Trying to create something real, close to home, he dig into his life, and started recreating subjects that he’d piled up in his poetic memory (there where without dates or precision you just keep stuff that touched you at some point). He then thought of things like deers, which he had killed, eaten seen but never drew. Cows, which he milked, ate, named but never drew. His mother, his grandmother, a spiritist who was able to see auras. He thought of his relationship with his brother, which he said came from a different planet than him - they had completely opposite personalities. All of this spoke to him truly; it allowed him to speak of something he actually knew, setting the foundation for his work on the next 40 years. 

After working in general motors as a graphic designer and going to the war, he came back and realized  one of the things he needed to explore through art in order to explain or understand (sometimes those two things are kind of the same thing) was violence. This brings us back to his brother. A hunter, gun-loving representation of the american dream, who thought violence was an ordinary thing in every man’s life. He represented a reality so alien; a way of thinking he could never embrace, and yet something so close that this became the subject of his first independent work Frozen Images (1974)

He tried to find a place for this series in quite a bunch of galleries in New York, and he says at least six told him “Man, you better take this thing to Germany, they love this dark shit over there”. Eventually he gave up on trying to fit this into NY pop galleries ‘cause apparently counterculture wasn’t as countercultural after all’, and finally his work was welcomed in print. He landed a job as an illustrator for the Times Magazine where he became the go-to guy for anything related to violence and crime. Influenced by Robert Weaver and André François, he realized that his story telling could be put into illustration (before that, illustration was but “pretty ladies” in feminine magazines) and he developed a thing he called visual essay. It consisted on allowing illustrations to speak for themselves, and to tell stories too, instead of relying on text (in literature this is called poetic images). Though now days this might seem a bit obvious to us, he’s one of the guys that actually made it that way. His style and way of thinking on what to portray relied on the works of Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud and Goya. That’s kind of like a bomb if you think how unapologetic and reckless they were.

Eventually, as time went by he became bolder and rawer and there’s an anecdote he likes to talk about of the time he was asked to make a cover for an article on death penalty. He came up with a painting (the one above this paragraph) and when he got to the office, the chief editor came out holding it under his arm and says “Kid, we’re not printing this; it’s too violent.” Arisman replied “Well frying a guy in a steel electric chair is pretty violent” and the editor then told him something he found rather profound. He said “We live in a culture where when people look at a picture, they don’t asks who the photographer was. They just take is as a reality. They don’t think of the guy taking the photo standing on the dead body. However, when they look at art, they know it takes time. They don’t think of it as a reality, they say the guy who made this is a psycho”. This kind of stories, not only the ones told on illustrations are what makes his work so rich. The context of the work, to him, is the work itself. 

With time, he sought to engage the context of his art in his work, as it enlarged the meanings of his work, and it revealed his creative process. This will inspired  works like The Last Tribe (2009) an exploration of nuclear annihilation (cheerful) or Ayahuasca series, Quechua people rituals (2012) where he used all the mediums taught himself along the way, putting painting, anecdotes and sound in videos where he speaks about the things around these series related to The Bomb. 

“The stories that surround the artwork are always more interesting to me than the artwork itself. And it’s been a luxury frankly, to be able to spend most of my life making pictures about things I’m interested in. And they generate all kinds of other things. I feel lucky about all that. I’ve had the time to do it. I mean I don’t know what it is I’ve done, but I’ve had the time to do it.”

Seldomly, artists allow themselves to reveal the integrity of their creative process, keeping to themselves the not so great, perfect parts of it. He however doesn’t pretend to come out as other “elegant” artist (elegant understood as hiding the processes and rough patches to make the final result seem effortless). In various interviews he’s been emphatic on how personal development relates to the evolution of his work. One of the things that were blocking him when he started was forcing himself to portray subjects that didn’t speak to him in a genuine way. He gives some advice on how this makes art meaningful for you and others regardless of what’s being done:

“If you’re lucky, and you go back to yourself and you start talking about yourself, you suddenly find out that there’s a connection there between you and other people.

Communication is part of the fun, right? It’s just so good when people respond, and say, “I know exactly what you mean” or “These pictures mean something to me.” That’s the nice communication.

It’s also the nice thing about being into print. All kinds of people are looking at it and I don’t have a clue who they are. It’s part of the fun, I think.”

He talks about his reflections naively, focusing on the human said of it. Though in this particular case he speaks only about the creative process, This anecdote is might ve valid when speaking of affecting other people’s life. Sometimes out of experience, or perhaps because we have the means or good intentions, we tend to interrupt the natural course of personal development for those around us. He makes the point when speaking about how he “killed” his mothers creative process:

“I killed the creative spirit in my own mother. Watching this process was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. My mother was a folk artist and made sheep out of bread dough that were her masterpieces. In an effort to bring her more income I marketed her abilities to the Smithsonian gift shop. The sheep sold out on the first order and they re-ordered. After designing a logo, tags invoices and opening a bank account for my mother I called her to find out how it was going. “Don’t ever interfere with my life again” my mother said. “I am so sick of making sheep that I could scream.” My mother never made anything again. The issue was never resolved. The morale is: Do not foll around with the creative process”

To analyze the evolution of an experienced artist like him, who’s still active is that we’re not only witness their process, but we can have its opinion on how things have changed. Despite the fact that illustration no longer offers the stability it used to as a job, he’s got a really optimistic perception on what’s happening in freelancing projects. 

“It’s not really a depressing time. But, if you talk to old-time illustrators, they’re all depressed. These are people who were booked up six months in advance. People who never had to pick up a pencil unless the phone rang. People who made more money every year with the same style for 30 years, and it looked like it was going to go on forever.

But it hasn’t. And those people are bitter. And that’s a shame. But that’s not what it’s about anymore. One of the ironies for me is that the very group of people who are trained to tell stories, the illustrators, never told their own stories.

But what’s replacing that is quite exciting. People are doing graphic novels and comic books. People are creating games and whatever. And what’s generating that, is that freelancing editorial work, which was the mainstay of illustration for most illustrators, is not a market that they can rely on totally anymore.

They’re doing some freelance. And, they’re patching it together with everything else, doing Flash animation and all kinds of things.”

Evidently times have changed, and illustration and the ways contemporary artists work nowadays is radically different. Nobody ever predicted how much technology, internet, social networks or the media would get to affect the panorama of, like, absolutely everything. Still, i believe that some things are inherent to the process of creation, no made which medium, which subject or which time. His story, and the way he tells it illustrate obstacles we ourselves experience in totally different context, and most importantly, the way he overcame this obstacles using art to vehicle the changes of life.

If you want to read all the other anecdotes and things he’s done check the sources for this article;

https://www.societyillustrators.org/marshall-arisman

success ideas from master illustrator marshal arisman:

http://thesherwoodgroup.com/interviews/interview-with-marshall-arisman/#.WPuRWlPyjEo

the last tribe (2009) an exploration of nuclear annihilation

https://vimeo.com/5432640

the new york times

wonderful look at the past. beautiful poetic simple image. Brilliant graphic dog. True aesthetic

https://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/06/08/his-night-train-and-his-dog/?_r=0

On his referents:

Rober weaver

https://www.flickr.com/photos/leifpeng/sets/72157603995211043/

bacon

https://fumeedopium.wordpress.com/2012/06/05/if-you-can-talk-about-it-why-paint-it-francis-bacon/

Lucian Freud

Andre françois

[jeannemalo-blog]

Nacer no debe ser el nombre de salto

que se da desde el vientre materno

hasta la muerte, sino el momento 

donde se conoce a un Dios, al arquitecto

que ha permitido recorrer los mares

y conocer el sol sin dañarse, 

al poder mirar las estrellas. 

Nacer es una voluntad posible, 

es caer de sueño en sueño 

maquillando el mundo. Es el agua

que restaña los desiertos de la boca;

el beso que hidrata los labios podridos. 

Cuando se nace, se agradece al mundo

y se pierde la razón. La castigadora calla 

al perder todas sus fuerzas, ante la luz 

de la verdad silenciosa, que canta 

a las almas y a los ojos que toda belleza

y el todopoder de la muerte nunca ha sido planeado. 

Nacer es dejar a un lado la comodidad de la ceguera

y no poder ver más con los ojos, sino con los oídos

para escuchar la cadencia armoniosa de un mundo 

que muere, como una rosa, sin razón de ser, 

para hacerse hermosa ante todos los espectadores

que la vean perecer. 

Las manos de los otros, y las propias, 

ahora son tan cristalinas como bombillas, 

y de las venas tan sólo quedan los vestigios, 

que parecen filamentos de luz, por donde corre

el alma inquieta de la vida. 

El zoológico de mundo sólo es

un archipiélago de incertidumbre, 

donde el mar azota las mareas del pensamiento

mientras el cuerpo se resguarda en pequeñas 

islas de seguridad.

La musica divina del alma viva que todo 

lo ha divisado en vano, con su arquitectura

nos hizo náufragos.

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Las piñas.

¿Cómo comer una piña? Tómela en sus manos y desnúdela con un cuchillo afilado, preferiblemente dentado, y retire la cáscara hasta los ojos. Después coma la carne, y eche a la basura el corazón. Así evitará lastimarse la lengua y las entrañas, pues varios médicos y científicos an afirmado que sus enzimas descomponen la carne; su carne. Lo anterior conllevaría normalmente a una perdida del sentido del gusto, y nada más le sabría bien sino la piña. Por supuesto aquello conduce a aun más dolor, pues sólo podría comer más carne y más corazones de piña, hasta sentir nauseas por tanto comerles, y sus labios arderían, desarrollando terribles boqueras. Aplique el procedimiento anterior con todo lo que tenga carne. Siempre se debe tener cuidado al comer el corazón. 

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En vano

Los pasos de la caterva enardecida 

resuenan en los muros de las urbes. 

En marcha sin sentido, se conducen 

a la muerte, en nombre de ninguna guerra. 

El campo de batalla no es el mundo, 

sino el corazón labrado de remordimientos

en el pecho ardiente de tan vivos muertos. 

Las olas de llantos ya no buscan ningún puerto,

porque no hay quien escuche ni comprenda

del naufragado individuo, sus lamentos. 

No es la muerte, sino el atardecer perpetuo

que ensombrece el horizonte hasta apresurar

la noche. Las nubes de ceniza han cubierto

el brillo de los cielos del alma, asfixiando 

las criaturas y las algas de las mareas interiores. 

Una orquesta de murmullos reza la alabanza

que convoca el redentor ángel de la muerte, 

sofocando los silbidos de las aves. Para escapar

al encierro en las prisiones, de personas 

empedradas, escaparle a la vida 

es la única puerta de salida. 

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Qué pena

Tengo la mirada vacía. 

No tengo más que lo que ven,

pero puedo pedir perdón

por disculparme tanto, 

si es que eso acaso 

les llega a servir de algo. 

No es nada, ya pronto será viernes

pero me hiela la culpa de haber nacido. 

No entiendo aun cómo para existir,

algo más deba morir y alguien deba pagar. 

Si tanto dinero ha costado mi vida, 

me pregunto cuánto costará una libra 

de mi envenenada carne. Tal vez cueste 

mucho. Pero igual, mucho menos 

de lo que puede valer, aunque

eso no lo cuenten los mercados,

alimentar al pobre hambriento 

que no ha tenido tanta suerte. 

Y también ha sido que me desenamoré. 

Ya no quiero mas cigarros, ni café

ya no quiero hablar más de proteínas

ni saber en cuales frutas hay más vitaminas. 

No tiene sentido cuidar más del cuerpo, 

pues si para verse como según manda 

el dios ya muerto, sólo hace falta 

dejar de comer un poco. 

No, lamento no poder dar la razón, 

ni mover mi cabeza en desapruebo 

para respaldarte la opinión, pero 

ya no tengo tiempo en la cabeza, 

ni mareadas fuerzas que me digan

que me servirá de algo reafirmar 

tu banal seguridad. 

No, no es tu culpa, no necesito

que me entiendas, ni me escuches

realmente sólo quiero no estar sola

cuando salga a la calle. perdón.

Hablar no quiero, ya es mucho

lo que me tengo que aguantar

yo misma en mi cabeza, para

venir y abrumarte a ti. Peligro, 

no sea que las tempestades

en mi mente, o bien mi falta

de oficio, terminen por desatar

una compleja duda latente

en tu tan balanceado caracter. 

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Enajenación

Déjenme. No llega más lejos

quien camina acompañado,

sino quien va más ligero. 

El deseo de tener a alguien 

en la vida, es una cuestión 

casi egoista. Por lo menos

hoy en día, aquel que persiguen

los anhelos solo buscan un espejo

para encontrarse. 

Ya no seré más un faro, 

para guiar barcos ajenos 

hacia su propio puerto, 

pues sólo el sol alumbra

sin pedir nada a cambio. 

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Geografía

Mirar al pasado es mirar hacia adentro, 

pero no es mirar la fecha en el calendario. 

Nada entiende el corazón de números

ni de horarios. La nostalgia camina, no calcula. 

El olor del pasado reside en las esquinas 

donde la vida se vio cara a cara con la muerte, 

y retándola escapó para dejar heridas, 

que miramos como una intima cartografía. 

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Necesidades

Todos somos tan niños, 

y  los que la conciencia 

maltrata, son aquellos que moran

por aquel hogar perdido, del cual 

fueron desterrados, al no poder

negarle al tiempo el capricho

de vestirse de una madurez forzosa. 

En tan tonta aporía, donde

las cabezas estallan, día a día, 

hay algunas grietas, que dejan

entre calles y alacenas, ver 

los vestigios del palacio

 donde un exiliado corazón en mora

construyó su dorado imperio. 

Los trémulos fantasmas se estremecen

al saberse descubiertos en fragancia, 

pues la verdad alumbra su falaz sinceridad. 

Ya no espantan, ya no tienen armas. 

Su ilusoria existencia descubierta es 

la llave para escapar de todas las prisiones. 

Ahora le resta al niño con fusil

deshacerse de aquella seguridad,

que en tan terrible régimen les fue 

mas útil para proteger su reprochable

ingenuidad que el tibio seno de la madre. 

Ya no hay madres, sólo tierra. 

Pero ellos siguen siendo de hueso, 

no sólo de carne vulgar y despiadada. 

Lo saben. Saben que todos en el fondo

comparten el vicio de volverse en soledad

a aquel cálido pasado despertar, donde ya

todo lo sabían. Sólo necesitan valentía, 

abandonarse a la derrota, y desnudarse 

el rostro para sentir el frío del mundo. 

Tal vez en ese rostro, como estrellas,

brillen lágrimas. Tal vez al verse, 

las constelaciones de recuerdos opaquen

con su brillo los metales y se calme el apetito

de los que no tienen hambre pero comen. 

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Desesperánzame

Espero. Este cuarto es mi abismo,

y estoy sentada sobre un hilo,

tentando la muerte que me acecha.

Como un trapecista en el abismo,

me equilibro entre la dicha y la desgracia.

Esperar no es buscar. Ya no tengo excusas

para endulzar los fracasos de intentos

insensatos. Hace mucho perdí la fe 

que algún día el mundo me haga caso. 

Espero algún día encontrar un hilo infinito

tan largo que me alcance para coser

la nostalgia al cuerpo. O encontrar

tal vez la manera de odiarlo todo, 

y que por la ley de los opuestos,

 seas tú quien cargue con mi congoja.

-Jeanne Malo

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Light in desguise

joy is the wine that washes thirst from my heart’s throat.

Yet i find it very rarely, for it lies beneath heavy hours of confrontation.

the world is not to be criticized, but understood. And only then, after

thinking, can I figure out the answer to what my existence signifies.  

Quietly, it unveils inside me, as ephemeral as smoke,

as bright as the last burst of flame on a dying candle.

What used to be a black tide of numbness, burning

the insides of my veins, is now a golden river summoning

gratitude from my spirit, for the beauty of its animal cage.

We are damned to believe that we must belong,

that being, and what’s worst, being correct, implies

being average. That thought’s a prison for those

who long, nostalgic, for a home they’ve never known.

Inhibition is oppression, blinding us from our fate.

Loving, somehow is owning what you see from yourself

all around you. Owning memories, this personal reflections,

is being owned by them too. Numbness, or that unbearable

itch of feeling misplaced, no matter where mean 

that you prison has not yet been built.

If no one’s walked your steps before, it means you’re

free of burden. It’s up to you to rise the fences that one

day will imprison the narrow-minded, and inspire the outcasts.

Yet, you must not worry, for it’s not your fault. It just is.

You’re free, for you not carry the frustrations of silent

visionaries, too blind and to0 weak to set the bar.

Joy comes as my soul gazes at answer. I signify nothing.

I was there before everything else. Existence is only possible,

for I’m its necessary nemesis. I escaped creation, I refer no other reality.

I’m an infinite possibility. I am the universe. I am all.

-Jeanne Malo

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Heart-deserted

I stand amidst the desert, for it feels like home.

Laughing, irony hurts my mind, for the heat of the sun

reminds me of the warmth, long gone, inside my soul.  

And I envy the burning sand, for in my empty chest

I can only seem to find the numbing coldness of the night.

Thoughts streaming by my head remind me of the almighty,

and so I understand this familiarity with the overwhelming thirst,

the never ending dryness of the sands who fool the agonizing,

by promising water in the never-ending chase,  leading only

towards a slow and hopeful dead. “As above, so below,

as with in, so without”, the master said.

The beauty of the apocalyptic landscape,

the diamond glints as fallen stars in sand:

it’s mesmerizing. Yet none of that is real,

the glory I love and all I see is only there

because of me. All of that is in my head

and I wonder how lonely god must feel.

-Jeanne Malo