Artist as Woman

In the beginning, I had no particular idea of what I wanted to paint, but simply followed the time-honored advice that one should write or paint what one knows best. In my case, this was the struggle that I and those I knew were going through in developing as people. Today, I rely on comments from those interested in my work, to reassure me, that I am not working in a vacuum, but am resonating to chords that are sounding in others around me. We are in the middle, perhaps at the very beginning, of a time when we can experiment with changes in the relationships between men and women. Right now, in this drama, the spotlight is on the woman. The man is just as much involved, and is just as much a victim of the past, whether we admit it or not. But today the emphasis is on the woman. It is a time for both introspection and extroversion; definitely an exciting time to be a woman, especially for the educated woman who lives well above the poverty line. It is a time to take courage, to take risks, and experiment with life in order to discover what is interesting enough to sustain you through a lifetime. If you accept the responsibility for your own future, there is no one else to blame if you fail to pick up your options. Part of the excitement comes from this real responsibility. It is a bit like accepting the responsibility of playing Russian roulette -- the stakes are high. Not only our successes but also our failures are our own. It is a very exciting game which is bound to stir up some compassion as well as resentment toward the men who used to monopolize it.

There is so much that women are learning for the first time, and the new knowledge is creating drastic changes in the old battle of the sexes. In some areas, such as equal rights, the battle has escalated into a political war. In other areas, such as personal relationships, some would opt for unilateral disarmament. But nothing can be achieved over-night. There will be a long period of mistrust, deliberate misunderstanding and resistance. Women have realized that their demands will never be handed over on a silver platter, but that they must fight and prove themselves capable and strong. The subtle resistance and criticism that they encounter is often frustrating and difficult to describe. In addition to verbal rebuttals, many have armed themselves with strong facades in order to survive.

The facade as theme
The facade is one of the themes of my paintings. I find it absolutely fascinating how much can be expressed not only with body language, but with facial language as well. Most women I have met use their facial muscles to convey some sort of message, or to keep from conveying some message (like fear or anxiety). Just recently, a friend, who has taken great personal and financial risks to follow her ambitions, wrote me about a dream she had. While she was walking in a strange city, her eye was drawn to the brightly-lit corner of a storefront. Through the window she saw two roosters chasing each other. I want to go inside that structure and see the cockfight. I don't want to be reproached: I want to be accepted by the boys. And I have to prove myself on those levels..."

More and more women are finding their way into the cockfight arena. The first wave or so may have deliberately discarded what they considered feminine tactics, in order to be one of the boys. More recently they are discovering that you don't have to be one of the boys in order to be accepted by them. These are individual discoveries, each arising out of the unique story of one woman and therefore not easily handed down as advice to friends.

Painting a facade -- whether it is worn to hide uncertainty or to reveal a new discovery -- is an exciting challenge for me because it reveals, in a way that often defies verbal description, the subtleties of the woman's struggle in her personal and professional relationships. However, to stop at this level would be to settle for "snapshots" of facial expressions, a sure mistake for any artist. An artist ought to strive for some kind of integration of images. In a visual art like painting, this unity amounts to a more general image, that reflects something common to many relationships.

Defiance
If I had to choose one image that to me most accurately reflects the mood and facade of women face to face with society today, it is one of defiance. I believe their defiance has always been there to some degree throughout history, but until now, has been interpreted as irrationality, petulance, rigidity, frigidity, or even stupidity. The enigmatic smile of Mona Lisa has baffled and enchanted and provoked hundreds of interpretations. Quite early in my life the quality that I saw in her face was one of defiance, perhaps even contempt for those around her who forced their interpretations on her just because she was silent.... Perhaps a painting such as the "Mona Lisa" serves as a Rorschach test: each interpretation reflects the preoccupation of the interpreter. The problem is that the very word defiance, as well as the facial expression of it, has so many interpretations. My synonym book lists 47 alternatives for defiance, some of which are: bravado, impudence, contempt, intimidation, open disregard, bold resistance to authority, insubordination, rebelliousness and willingness to fight. Certainly all those attitudes have been felt be many women with respect to their positions as women. It is so terribly difficult and frustrating to explain them in proper perspective, because it is so difficult to single out the enemy. We blame the system and we blame our history, but most of all we have picked on the "male chauvinist pig". Male apologists have pointed to our own weaknesses, and anthropological and biological necessities. We may not win all the arguments of why woman was kept down in the past, not even of whether she was kept down, but it doesn't matter because we know what we want now, whether men feel it is reasonable or not.

Men and women eyeing each other cautiously
Unfortunately, often the battle is brought down to the personal level, and that is where the issue becomes sensitive. Another image that I see if of men and women eyeing each other cautiously because they are too aware of the possibility of advantages taken or infringements made on each other's rights. Even in the best of marriages there are occasions when the partners wonder whether they are getting their fair share out of life, whether they are kept back by the other in any way, whether they are fulfilling themselves.

Sometimes, to tease me, my husband reminds me of the "good old days" (which we have never experienced), when the wife scurried around the husband, making everything comfortable and convenient for him so that he had nothing else to concern himself with but the advancement of his career. In the same spirit, I remind him that in the past, traditionally, every artist had an adoring mate, who acted as occasional model, and also took care of all the worldly matters such as food, clothing and shelter, so that the artist could concentrate fully on the act of creation.

The suspicion in marriage is nothing compared to the suspicion among single men and women who haven't known each other long. I listen wide-eyed to the stories of my single friends as they tell me how difficult it is to meet "decent" men. I have to take their word for it that there are nothing but "turkeys" out there. It never surprises them to find that the man is basically insecure and out on an ego trip. Even when they meet someone they like, they are very reluctant to make any commitment in emotion or time spent, because they are waiting for the fateful revelation that they are the ones who are expected to sacrifice a larger part of their lives, whether it is their time or their apartments or their freedom. The other side of the story is that men feel women are too "hard" and aggressive and unyielding. Obviously there is a long way to go before women can afford to become more relaxed, and before men discover that women's intentions are not castration.

Conversation in Vienna
An example of the cycle of misunderstanding and suspicion happened to me not too long ago. It was during an exhibition of my paintings in a lovely gallery in the old, cobblestoned section of Vienna. Here the streets are adapted to the plan of the ancient city, and you unexpectedly find courtyards within courtyards. The result, to a stranger like myself, was a labyrinth so complex that I worried whether anyone would find my gallery. (Miraculously, they did.)

The opening, or vernissage as they call it in Europe (referring to the final coat of varnish on the canvas), created considerable trepidation in me. Europeans approach art more solemnly, I was told, and a vernissage is regarded as a serious event.

Also, whether it is true or not, I expected the average viewer to be familiar with the masters in the arts that their own city had produced or entertained. As in many historical cities, art is in the streets. You run into it unexpectedly in the middle of a courtyard, catch a glimpse of it partly hidden by a tree or bush; or you hear it late at night as you pass a concert hall. Everywhere around me I recognized some piece of life that must have been the inspiration for artists. I wondered whether, if I had been exposed to all of this from childhood, I would have painted like Gustav Klimt.
Despite my anxious moments, I felt prepared. I was prepared with a rather faltering knowledge of the German language, with several willing translators on hand. I was prepared with plenty of wine and sandwiches for the onslaught of hungry fellow artists who faithfully follow vernissages (the woman who ran the gallery had confided in me that it would be wise to follow the custom of providing food, since there were some unfortunate artists who depended on this for sustenance), and I was prepared to explain or defend my work in the context of some personal philosophy of life.

But I was not prepared for what actually happened in the very first hour. A smooth-skinned, dark-haired, handsome man in his 30s approached me and politely asked -- in good English -- for permission to say something. Amused by the choice he gave me, and somewhat grateful that he spoke English, I naturally granted him permission. "You paint women," he informed me as he gestured around the room. Together, we looked from painting to painting, and for the first time, I had the sensation of seeing them through someone else's eyes. Also, for the first time, I wondered whether the eyes staring back at me from the walls were not a bit too lofty, a touch too confident, serene. "Yes, I paint women," I smiled, hoping the smile would mask the mounting tension. I'd guessed what he wanted to talk about, and judging by his deliberate manner, I thought it would probably be of no avail to point out the few men present in my work.

"These women you paint," he paused and focused on one in particular, "they are not European women." He had a curious way of stating rather than asking. I asked him to explain what he meant. "These women are strange to us here. European men do not respond warmly to this kind of woman." I found it interesting that he assumed the responsibility to be the spokesman for the European male. I felt uneasy. It was his posture even more than his words that made me feel uneasy. He stood very straight and rigid, with a face so inflexible that I doubted whether a smile had ever cracked his facade. Whenever I am unsure of the direction of an attack, my strategy is to act amused and a bit naive. In this way I may gain time to assess whether the attack is in fact intentional, and if so, what the motivation is behind it and how I could best respond. So, continuing to smile, I asked, "What kind of women do European men respond to?" Without hesitation he replied, "They are not so hard...they are softer. They are not so...how do you say it?...arrogant. This woman here, I would not like to meet." He pointed to one of the paintings. "How is it that you paint such women?"

I was at a loss. I tried to explain that from my point of view these women were strong and serene, which is very different from hard and arrogant, but he could not, or would not, accept the distinction. We must have carried on for half an hour, and in the course of this time, his intentions became quite clear. Not only did he mean to criticize my work, which is fair game, but also to question and undermine the person behind it. Oddly enough, though he could not possibly have perceived it, the artist herself was "not so hard", and did not carry a bag of handy put-downs for such occasions. I wished for the help of one of my sharp-witted friends who could have transformed the scene into one big, hilarious joke. Instead, I experimented with a touch of levity in my voice. But when confronted with the dead-seriousness of the man, I realized he wanted to restrict me to two choices: I could either be the hard and arrogant woman he saw in my paintings, or I could prove him wrong by yielding to his view, disassociating myself from my subject matter and thereby proving myself soft and feminine by his definition. I wasn't interested in either choice. I felt the familiar frustration of the double bind.

In my struggle for integrity, I felt my chin rise a few inches, my eyes narrow slightly, and my mouth curl into what I hoped was an unperturbed smile. I had unconsciously assumed the exact same posture as the woman in the painting whom this man did not wish to meet. These women were speaking for me. There was perhaps no need to talk.

The search for new self-images
Women today are actively looking for new self-images, or to put it differently, seeking their identity. To have no self-image is to have no centre, which means you are at the mercy of those who decide to interpret your life for you. The oldest wisdom in the world that gives guidance for a satisfying life, whatever the culture, comes down to know thyself. Yet, in this most important of quests, women rarely had the luxury of finding out firsthand. Their alternatives were given to them. In an analysis of women's experience in stories, Carol Christ writes: "Men have actively shaped their experience of self and world by creating the stories they have told. Their deepest stories orient them to what they perceive as the ultimate powers and realities of the universe. We women have not told our own stories. The dialectic between experiencing and shaping experience by story-telling has not been in our own hands." (Anima, Vol. 1, No. 2.) Similarly, in art, the visual images of women have been created by men. The female form has been such a popular theme -- there seems to be something about women that calls out to be explored and explained, over and over. Woman has mystified man since time began, yet he has not been shy about offering interpretations. Until quite recently, men have had a near-monopoly in the arts, which means that the only images of women that have been available to women, have been created by men. It has been through male interpretations and guesses that women have had to view themselves. The world has not heard the silence of the countless women who faced the impossibility of relating to the choices given them, or of asserting their personal views. In the historical perspective, the woman's story is just beginning. When I was a child, my mother once told me, with fury in her voice, that if the history of the world had been in the hands of women, it would have been a completely different story. She had just recently emerged from Europe after three years of trying to outguess the direction of a war, fleeing with four children and no husband. Of course, at the time I had no idea what she meant, but the words and the tone of her voice stayed with me. More recently, I discovered that Euripides had said roughly the same thing in Medea

	Flow backward to your sources, sacred rivers,
	And let the world's great order be reversed.

	Story shall now turn my condition to a fair one,
	Women shall now be paid their due
	No more shall evil-sounding fame be theirs.

In the meantime, before the rivers flow backward, if a woman were seeking an image to relate to, and looked through the art and literature of all but the very recent past, she would likely be as mystified as the men who created the images. Despite the fact that her image is constantly painted, her alternatives are surprisingly few, and the visual images closely follow the verbal ones found in literature and mythology. She is unlikely to identify with any of them. Although many typologies have been devised to describe her, they are unsatisfying because they are fragmentary reflections of a much more complex whole. If anything, the molds that man has created for woman reflect his very ambivalent view of her.

Woman as madonna
On the one hand, there is the aspect of woman that is quite readily controlled by man, or useful in his behalf. Here is the madonna, the mother and the lover. Needless to say, here is, from a man's point of view, what is good and admirable in woman. Also, in Jung's typology, here is the anima, the reflection of the best and loftiest, purest qualities of man. Here is the mysterious source of energy, as the sea is the source of life. Here lives the unconscious Sleeping beauty, waiting to be stimulated into action by a kiss from a prince -- the only person who can rescue her from eternal sleep. Princesses live in castles and spend most of their time dreaming, totally outside the world of action. What could be more attractive than a lovely sleeping maiden, passive but quivering with potential -- potential love and devotion for the man who awakens her? What could be more beautiful than a mother lovingly stroking the forehead of her child or husband?

At the same time, what is more frustrating and humiliating than the passive waiting and constant silence, despite what the eyes see or the ears hear, despite what energy or talent is burning inside? Carol Christ points out that no one ever recorded what Mary, the mother of Jesus, thought of all the miraculous and remarkable and sorrowful events that centred on her son. The only comment made is, "But Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart." (Luke 2:19) No one automatically thinks of the possibility of Penelope suffering from sexual deprivation while Ulysses was away on his fabulous voyages, although her home was filled with suitors, some of whom must have been strong and handsome or otherwise to her taste.

Woman as siren
On the other hand, there is the siren, the temptress; the monstrous, evil part of woman that enchants men, traps them and diverts them from their true course. Here is Eve, whose impulsiveness and seduction of Adam brought about their expulsion from Eden; and Pandora, who similarly unleashed all evils on the world. Both challenged the divine order of the universe and have come to symbolize the irrational force in women. There is a myriad of mythical figures -- women who murder their children, devour their sons, lure men to their deaths...and countless variations on the theme. But what they all have in common is that they are not complete stories but only fragments, the fragments that tell the story from the man's point of view. We are told that Eve and Pandora were impulsive and irrational, but we are not told of their possible burning desire for knowledge, or deliberate forethought or willingness to take a risk for the sake of knowledge, or the possible boredom and unhappiness with the divine order. At the very least, are they not the prototypes for Dr. Faustus, the man who sold his soul to the devil for the sake of knowledge? No story is woven around the complexity of their lives and thoughts, even though they were responsible for the most portentous of events. Only the evils of the world, not the marvel of knowledge, are attributed to them. In the case of Medea, a woman with strong magical powers, we are horrified at her wickedness when she kills her children (and Jason's). But we are asked to accept Jason's betrayal of her, after she had saved his life several times at great cost to herself. Long after the story is forgotten, the image of an evil Medea remains. She was one more of the archetypal outcasts among women who have been maligned by the society in which they lived. Some women become outcasts by choice, and others are driven. In her book Women and Madness (Avon paperback, 1973, $2.25), Phyllis Chesler shows evidence that because of the restrictiveness of acceptable female roles, women who cannot accept them and wish to escape them sometime have turned to madness, as for example in the case of Zelda Fitzgerald, the talented and frustrated wife of Scott. In earlier times some were persecuted as witches.

Somewhere in between the two extreme images of woman as madonna and woman as evil, there is another: woman as sexual object. Personally I don't find paintings of male or female nudes objectionable at all, since the sexual component is just that, one component, and not a conceptual interpretation. As a painter I, too, want to celebrate the beauty of the nude, express human emotions through it, or explore its potential as an art form. However, many nudes do reinforce the images of woman as the passive princess or the seductive siren, especially paintings by modern artists whose images do not differ much from Playboy/

A time of new possibilities
Every age has its themes. I feel very fortunate to be painting at a time when women are waking up to new possibilities and are voraciously seeking role models and new self-images. I feel lucky because, as a child, I remember the great disappointment and disbelief as I slowly learned how little was expected of me. I went through a long period of confusion and resentment, during which time I even wrote what would now be considered a women's liberation story, to console myself and sort out my direction. Shortly after that, I heard of the beginnings of a women's liberation movement, and gratefully read books by Betty Friedan, Germain Greer, Monique Wittig, and others. Ever since, although I've never been an active member, I've grown side by side along with the movement, feeling like a little sister who lets her bigger sister fight her battles, but also learns from her mistakes. I laughed at her occasional violent tantrums and identity crises, but I learned to admire her for her persistence, flexibility and sense of justice.

Now, at last, women are telling their own stories, in words, in paint, in music, in film. New images are being created, new possibilities explored. There are some fortunate women who no longer remember the old images, and some who were never exposed to them, except in the form of fairy tales. My own daughters, aged seven and eleven, have heard about them as old curiosities, and I find myself explaining how it used to be, to their horrified disbelief.

At this moment, the themes in my work happen to coincide with the themes that many women are interested in. I am only too happy if somewhere along the line someone identifies with a figure in my paintings. For example, two years ago, I did a painting titled "He Sleeps", in which a male figure sleeps on his side while a nude female figure rises behind him in an ambiguous pose -- she may just be arriving or she may be deciding to leave. A delightful elderly lady, full of vigor and charm, looked at the title. "Ah! He sleeps!" she exclaimed. "That's the way it really was!" Perhaps we cannot force the sacred rivers back to their source and reverse the order of the world, but if we continue to tell our own stories and create our own images, perhaps someday we will indeed find out the way it really was -- and is.

....................................................................Copyright 1979 Merike Lugus

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Last updated Jul 7/95

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