Plastic Practice
2024.11.12
The outcome of life is the same for everybody. What that means to me is that, in reality, the process we all go through is the most important. In fact, it’s the only thing that we have.
How does an art practice reflect that without feeling forced? How does your art lose form and begin again?
As I walk across the island, I knew that I needed a way to continue my art without bringing a canvas. You can’t bring canvases with you wherever you go—it’s actually impractical as a form. So, I have just started, as of today, painting on plastic. A thin piece of plastic, thicker than saran wrap but maybe less thick than a tarp. It’s sort of like a shower curtain. You can roll it up, and that’s what makes it portable.
I’ve bought oil paints here in Dumaguete, Philippines, at a little store I found out about through a local artist. I think it’s at 58 EJ Blanco Street. They have a really nice Vietnamese restaurant attached to it, which I highly recommend if you’re ever there. But I digress.
The Practice
I guess I’ll call it Plastic Practice. It’s simple: unfold your plastic canvas and begin to paint whatever comes to your mind, ideally. It could be a photo or a concept that resonates with you. This is how art is—a search inward. You pick colors, sometimes seemingly out of nowhere, that just feel right, that speak to you. You pick concepts, seemingly out of nowhere, that resonate in the moment.
Today, I drew an arborist. Aesthetically, I enjoy it. I enjoy the ropes on the arborist, the chainsaw they bring, the harnesses, the big boots. I enjoy drawing these things aesthetically. But I also have mixed emotions about arborists. They prune trees that, I guess, we as humans feel need to be pruned. At the same time, the tree is just taking care of itself. All it wants to do is grow, and we stop it for whatever reason—maybe the tree is going to hit an electrical line, or maybe it’s getting too big and people are afraid it might land on their house. Other people’s wishes and opinions stop it from growing.
To be honest, I didn’t pick this painting with all of that in mind. But maybe in some way, I did. Maybe in some way, I did. That’s part of the practice. How does what you paint reflect who you are and what you’re going through, without you even realizing it?
End to Prepare to Begin Again
The practice ends when you think you’ve done enough. You wash it off with toilet paper, roll up the plastic, and start again later. I do take a photo of the painting because I want to keep it in memory only, knowing that that too will fade. But I don’t want to keep it as a physical canvas.
At some point, you just begin collecting too many canvases. I don’t want to keep giving away these physical things that are part of my soul. Sometimes, it’s just meant to fade away. Not everything that comes out of me is a commodity. I don’t want the things that come out of me to become a commodity. I know that’s sort of what happens in the society we live in, but I am focused on the process—this Plastic Process.
The irony is that this Plastic Process might be some of the most real art that I do, despite it being called plastic. Sometimes, the art I do on canvas, despite maybe looking better, feels less like me.
Looking forward to begin again soon.
