At times, I find myself tickled over the proper response to society’s popular small talk kindling, the question: “what do you do?” My mind spins at high revolutions. I eat, I take shits, I admire the regality of my dog Kona, I harmonize my inner beauty with the the outer beauty of the earth through sculpture, I do dishes, I make an income through a corporate organization, I watch movies, I wander the woods collecting things, I play with cats and lasers, etc. But which one of my doings should I pick in order to satisfy the inquiry of the person asking me? My mind tells me that I’m supposed to talk about my job- that making an income is what I do. First, if the person knows about my job they can compartmentalize me into a social category and have a better understanding of how to interact with me. If I start by saying that what I do is move a laser pointer around my living room while my cat tries to catch it, the person I’m faced with will likely be conversationally paralyzed. Second, most people spend the majority of their waking life doing the thing that provides an income for them. I am incredibly blessed (and strategic) to have a great deal of balance and diversity among the things I do with my time, which puts me in a unique position each time I decide to speak on what I do. Most importantly, however, I know I want to introduce myself as an artist and I want to make sure that label is authentic. So I ask myself, am I an artist?
Of course, the Waldorf philosophy tells us that we are all artists and that we are all unique and special individuals- just like everyone else! Professionals of art (oxymoronic?) say that an art degree, a recognition or award from a gallery, or, of course, income directly correlated with art sales are the deciding factors of when a person is deserving of the title. Pablo Picasso said “All children are artists, the problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.” If Picasso was alive I would ask him “have I remained pure enough to my childish roots and avoided the bureaucracy of adulthood enough to cling on to my identity as an artist?” In order to be deserving of the title of artist, all I have to do is stay synchronized to my inner child? Check. And regarding the satisfaction of the professionals of art, although I don’t give a fuck, there is money from art in the bank. Check.
It seems, through this cycle of rambling, that I am granted to freely call myself an artist. No more paralyzing partygoers with my endless introductions of cats and lasers or smothering my fire for life by talking about work, I can now embody my true nature and confidently open a conversation by saying that I am an artist. But why isn’t it easy? Why do I still stutter over the question? Why am I sitting down at noon on a beautiful June day to consider the issue? It is, of course, because to be an artist is to be vulnerable. In our society it is safe to tell people we barely know what organization we work for or what predictable recreational hobbies we choose to perform. Jobs, skiing, walking dogs, going to that new restaurant, and watching that show are generally easy- and safe- things to share. Telling people that I am an artist, and that what I do is to remove the flesh from decomposing animal heads, extract the teeth, boil the skull in a beach solution, forge features like sharp teeth and eyeballs, and then sell the sculpture to the public is definitely a larger and more dynamic social risk.
My name is Alex Bond and I am an artist. What I do is wander and wonder. I use my body and mind to create sculptures that encompass my heart and soul, and which connect to the heart and soul of the earth. Next time you have the opportunity to introduce yourself, what will you say?
