materials

Empathy as Art Practice

Oil sketch on canvas, 8" x 10", 2013, Amanda Clyne

I must confess. I constantly feel the desire to slip inside another's skin. I am fascinated by the prospect of entering the internal worlds of others, and I have pursued art for its special capacity to create this experience. Although I have not always been an artist, I have always been an avid viewer of the arts, experiencing genuine and intense personal connections to artworks that seem to magically mirror my own private sensibilities. At its best, the experience feels as if I have met a kindred spirit, sharing such a deep reciprocal bond that loneliness becomes impossible. Now as an artist, I have begun to think of the act of making art itself as an empathic exercise, and wonder how the notion of empathy may serve as a paradigm for my art practice.

The concept of empathy has been engaging the interests of those in philosophy, psychology and neuroscience, and while there is no standard definition used by researchers, there are three critical elements that seem to be agreed upon:

The Other: The experience of empathy begins with the desire to understand the mental or emotional state of another. The focus is not on the self but on the other.

Imagination: Empathy involves the act of imagining as the means to overcome the challenge of perceiving what another person is experiencing in a particular circumstance. This notion of imaginative simulation has its roots in the 18th century with the moral philosophizing of Adam Smith:
"By the imagination we place ourselves in his situation, we conceive ourselves enduring all the same torments, we enter as it were into his body, and become in some measure the same person with him, and thence form some idea of his sensations, and even feel something, which, though weaker in degree, is not altogether unlike them." (1)
Shared Response: The purpose of this imaginative undertaking is not merely to understand another person's experience, but to share in that person's response. Graham McFee declares empathy to be "an achievement", the result of an active form of engagement:
"...empathy is, in this way, relational in a stronger sense than, say, even sympathy. My sympathy with you (or for you) does not require that you feel anything: but at the centre of the idea of empathy is precisely a sharing of some psychological state or condition. So both your contribution and mine are required." (2)
Each of these elements seems to lie at the heart of not only viewing art but making it. It's easiest to see this in the work of artists such as Gillian Wearing or Bill Viola, where the work is made through interacting with real people -- recruited subjects in Wearing's work and hired actors in Viola's work -- and where empathy is in some way the stated subject matter of the work itself.

But for those of us dealing with images or abstract forms, can empathy still be considered a defining aspect of our approach? I like to think that it can. I feel it at each stage of my painting process. From the very beginning, there is always something "other" that needs to be imaginatively embodied, whether a person, an image, a form or an idea. And once paint hits the canvas, the materials themselves demand an empathic treatment. Any attempt to control or dominate them are inevitably rejected as futile. They seem to respond best when they are collaborators in the process, nurturing, expanding and supplementing my own decisions and sensibilities. As an image comes to form on the canvas, it too takes on a life of its own. In the midst of composing a work, I always have the sensation that the image looking back at me has an inherent form that must be discovered in dialogue with the painting itself. It is not all about me. Empathy for "others" must guide me throughout.

I find purpose in imagining empathy as the paradigm of my art practice. As a viewer, I have no doubt that empathy is an intrinsic part of art's transformational power. Now as an artist, I am finding it to be no less of a critical force in art's creation, helping to generate an empathic network that ultimately joins together the source/subject, artist, artwork, and viewer.

Strange Happenings

I couldn't sleep last night. I tried drawing (something I haven't done, well, almost ever). I'm a painter, you see. Somehow it feels very different. Drawing is so linear, so direct, it's a language I speak with only in an awkward and usually incomprehensible accent. So in frustration I picked up my iPhone and began playing with the Brushes app. I had got the app awhile ago after being inspired by David Hockney's show at the ROM last year. But except for a couple quick sketches, I never really took to it -- until tonight, when I didn't feel like doing anything else and nothing else was working. There's something strangely addictive about painting with light from the tip of your finger. Who knows where it will lead. Today I'm spending the day in the painting studio and I have a feeling (optimism?) that more strange things may be on their way.

digital drawing, 2012

digital drawing, 2012

Mirroring Empathy

A few months ago, I started a new series of paintings that, instead of fragmenting multiple versions of one source image, I began building new portraits by combining sheer layers of multiple source images. The paintings aren't completed yet, so I have no great reveal for you right now, but since I began this work, I keep bumping into parallel universes that are signalling to me I may be on the right track.

Inspired by the connection of the mirror/image to the desire for empathy and intimacy, I felt the fates twist in my favor when I recently came across a reference to "mirror neurons". Seriously, MIRROR neurons? If things couldn't get any better, it turns out this is science's name for those neurons in the brain identified as the source of our empathic instincts. I just had to know more. To start, I found this pretty good video produced by PBS's NOVA series that explains the current research findings.

And if that wasn't awesome enough, I then came across a random Tweet about an amazing artist, Megan Daalder, (who I am now painfully jealous of!) who took this idea of the mirror neuron one step (or perhaps more accurately, a million steps) further by creating a "mirror-box" to enable two individuals to physically merge their mirror reflections into one another in real time. It is a living, breathing version of what I am exploring in my paintings, and it could not be more inspiring. I beg you to watch the video about her work -- it's an amazing story of the power of art, the promise of technology, and the mysterious science of empathy.

Portraits of a Sensation


photograph, Amanda Clyne ©

I am not a storyteller. My curiosity in the world lies not in reconstructing a nebulous past or imagining a fantastical future, but in experiencing the pregnant intensity of a living moment. When I am drawn to something, whether a person, building, object or image, I place the world on pause to probe the source of my empathic fascination. I delve deeper into the experience, not by inventing accompanying narratives or researching encyclopedic details, but by envisioning ways to embody the moment and prolong the sensation. Art can fulfill this desire in me, either through the creation of my own work or through my experience of the work of others.

Growing up, I found that the art that spoke most profoundly to my sensibility was in the modern works of the 20th century, particularly those of abstraction. While I appreciated the skill and complexity of the great works of the old masters, their dramatic form of storytelling did not move me in the way that a de Kooning, Twombly or Agnes Martin work did. The more narrative I perceived, the less I felt engaged with it. I didn't even like reading. Stories just didn't do much for me.

So imagine my surprise when a few years ago my painting began to move away from abstraction and toward representation, of the human body no less! But my paintings are not at all about storytelling or even description. Is what I paint really representation? Is the use of the figure determinative of whether a work is representational?

I am beginning to find an answer in Daniel Smith’s erudite introduction to Deleuze’s book “Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation”. Without taking on the grand debate between Modernism and Postmodernism, I find myself drawn to Deleuze’s distinction between “figuration” and “the Figure”, as his concept of the Figure seems to offer a third category of imagery that seeks to challenge the conditions of representation while lying somewhere between representation and abstraction. Smith explains that for Deleuze, “figuration” is a form that is intended to represent a particular object to the viewer (ie. representational), whereas “the Figure” is a form intended to elicit a sensation from the viewer through more direct means, such as in the work of Francis Bacon. In my own work, the insidious melancholy and pathos I evoke is far from the violent rage in Bacon’s work, but I find I share with Bacon, as Smith writes, “the problem he shares with Cézanne: How to extract the Figure from its figurative, narrative, and illustrational links? How to “paint the sensation”…?”

For my last solo show, my exhibition “Illusive” was sub-titled “Portraits of an Image”, a kind of statement of purpose to clarify that I did not consider the paintings to be representational portraits of a woman. Perhaps I need to expand that idea, and conceive of my next paintings as not just portraits of an image, but as portraits of a sensation.

The Heart of the Matter

The last week or so has been all about reassessing the paintings of the summer and understanding my dissatisfaction with them - analyzing, questioning, reasoning - but in the last few days it has been all about the paint again, and I just love it. The simpler compositions I'm working with require me to explore much more subtlety in the surface; I'm taking more risks with the color, and not painting the surface as sheerly as I have been; and now I'm allowing the paint texture and brush strokes to reveal themselves too. My natural touch with the brush is quite gentle, so the paint-handling has a really sensual, feminine look that I'm actually quite happy with.

I've also added a new color to my palette - Manganese Blue - which looks like it has light embedded in the pigment. It's infused the painting with a type of brightness that my other oil paintings don't have. It's made me want to explore some other new pigments that give this sense of light - although I do find the contemporary palette can get too attached to the screen-aesthetic and lose the richness of some of the more traditional colors. Pthalo-based (and other synthetic) colors can easily overwhelm a painting. But in moderation, it could help me to re-invent the historical types of images I use with a slightly sexier edge than my past works.

With all the emphasis on conceptual matters in art now, it's often too easy to lose focus on the magic offered in the materials. I still have a lot to learn about oil paint, and I've only begun to figure out what I can make it do, but I just have to remind myself to not get so wrapped up in the ideas and the image for the work that the importance and relevance of the paint itself gets lost. I see my work almost as a defense of painting - that the translation of these digital/photographed images into paint changes their meaning, changes the viewer's reception of the work - which means I need to make sure that the paint in my work is speaking as loudly as the composition, the ideas and the image. In fact, that probably describes all the paintings I love - when the paint itself is not just a tool of expression, but is an undeniable part of the message.

Back To My Roots

So! An exciting day today so far. In processing a new image for my next painting, I was letting the ink run/move/drip on each print (I really liked the drippy/dissolved woman in the recently failed painting - photo in August 3 post), but today the results just weren't what I wanted. The distortions, particularly in the faces, were too dark, too disturbing. To clarify some of the facial distortions, I began to crop details of the image before printing them. The details are SO much more interesting. The fragments become not just mere fragments of an image, but new images unto themselves. And the enlarged fragments allow the ink to separate/bleed/blend in more complex and unpredictable ways - and offer so much more visual information from which to paint. But the best part is that I think these latest images can be really strong images on their own - before I've even painted them. It's made me think that photographs of these ink prints could be a really interesting addition to my work - and create an interesting dialogue with the paintings that translate the combination of these inky fragments into paint. I also think it will begin to clarify/emphasize the important role photography has in my work - offering a painted image that manually "reproduces" a photograph, and a photographed image of a mechanically "improvised" image.