Recognizing Yourself In Another’s Art

A few weeks ago, I attended an artist talk between Laura Vincent of Laura Vincent Design and Gallery and abstract artist Mark Dunst about his show Wandering.

I look at a lot of abstract art. Now and then a certain line, color combination, or paint application catches my eye and makes my heart jump - usually something that feels real, honest, unaffected.

When I came across Mark Dunst’s work on Instagram, every painting did that to me. Not just a section - the whole piece.

His work speaks directly to me. It speaks my language.

“This is me,” I found myself saying at the artist talk when the audience was invited to share their experience.

Maybe it sounded a little crazy, but I was trying to explain why his work moves me so deeply. It’s as if I knew what these marks were about, what they were trying to say, and how they felt when they said it.

I could see the frustration, the impatience, the pain at the ugliness of the world, of people to each other, of our own eternal humanness.

I could see the desire to move beyond all of this to find the heartbreaking beauty inside the ugliness and the mess. 

Beauty exists within the mess, because of the mess. They need each other. They thrive off each other. 

As I sat there listening to the artist and gallery owner, I slowed down enough to truly take in the paintings around me - something I don’t always do in a museum or gallery. I’m often too quick, moving from piece to piece, impatient to see what’s next.

Spending time with these pieces I could hear what they were saying. I could hear them talking to each other, and to me.

I could see the hesitancy of interrupted lines, the stops and starts, the yearning of a line forging ahead into the unknown, meandering, only to find itself back to where it started. A coming home.

A line, searching and returning - belonging made visible.

This sense of coming home showed up again and again in Wandering. From hesitant, faded marks to bold declarations - Look at me. I know exactly where I’m going! - to the quiet confidence of a line that no longer needs to be noticed first.

It was all there, speaking to me.

I realized this is what I’ve been after in my own paintings all along.

I’ve spent so much time trying to put into words what painting means to me, tweaking and refining my message.

But sitting there, listening to these paintings, I knew: I want to express all of me and all of life. Not just the pretty parts.

The joy is in not shying away from the ugly - of finding beauty because of it, not in spite of it.

I’ve always known this. I’ve always known that when I paint, I want to invite every part of me in, especially the parts that have been hidden too long.

But what I hadn’t realized, until I heard myself say it at this artist talk, is that I also want to invite another part of me - that core part that is whole and always has been. The part that remains unscathed by life. The part that is unwavering and patient, even when I lose sight of it.

Knowing this part exists is a deep comfort.

We all have it. We’re all trying to find our way back to it - more often, more reliably, more fully.

All we have to do is be curious about it. Make time and space for it. Invite it in.

The practice of painting is how I make space for it in my life. What I’m after is to catch glimpses of it in my work. 

I’m so grateful to know this now.

If you’re curious about Mark Dunst, his work, and his own words about it, check out his Instagram here.

For more about Laura Vincent Design and Gallery, go here. 

What about you?

How do you make space for that core part of yourself? Even when other parts of you are angry and upset, anxious for change, ready to fix this mess once and for all?

How do you find your way back to the part of you that can hold the pain without being engulfed by it?

What are the words of comfort and encouragement that come to you when you do connect to it?

Drop me a line to let me know. It truly makes my day to connect with you.