The work cycle of an artist could be roughly described in the following seven phases:
I) Dabbling with Ideas: This is the fun part of being an artist. The time when they are alone and can make very ugly things that will never be seen, research tentative connections between frog toes and baroque textiles, write a few important notes about their practice and just eat some candy while hanging out in their studio. It's a time free from pressure and responsibility and it's the best time to have a little chat with them.
II) Proposing: Once you have ideas, you need a place to house them and if you are lucky, a few people to come and look at your work while drinking free beer. To accomplish this you need to pen many long and illustrative letters to selection committees, galleries, friends and enemies in the hopes that they will give you a show or some money or, miracle of miracles, both. During this phase an artist will spend a lot of time picking the right paper on which to print their CV, selecting a font that is at once contemporary and eye-ball-searingly memorable while not being too "unique" or (heaven forbid) "artsy". They will photoshop madly and streams of curly bullshit phrases will pour onto application forms. They will dream about their future opportunities, smiling in their hopeful sleep.
III) Mass Rejection: Almost all of the proposals the artist sends will get turned down. This will make them a quivering mass of self-hate and insecurity and bitterness and make them question all of their life decisions and make them dream of being a civil servant.
IV) A Glimmer of Acceptance: Now and then someone will be conned into giving the artist something. The artist will always feel deep, deep down like they have pulled one over on their benefactor. But curiously, most artists are also endowed with a quiet belief that they are the undiscovered saviour of contemporary art and so will be pleased that they are finally being recognized for their genius. This pleasure will last for a couple of weeks during which time the artist makes no work, simply content in their own gloried existence.
V) Anticipating the Show: Although the show seemingly answers all of the artist's dreams for recognition and communication, it is still a hellish endeavour. There is the work that must be created, completely awful ideas that must be separated out from the inspired ones, outfits to plan and guests to invite. The artist will at times be peaceful with their work, in love with it, revolted by it, demoralized by it and now and then gripped by the thought that they are only copying something better that they saw once. It is best to avoid the artist during this period as they are intolerably moody and pretty convinced that everyone else's life has paused in observance of their creative flurry.
VI) The Show Arrives!: Prior to the opening of the exhibition, the artist will have spent a number of hours crying or panicking about the disaster they are about to unveil. They will sublimate that despair into perfecting their outfit. When they arrive at the gallery on the big night, they will see that the work is actually ok (at least when compared to the other crap normal on view) and will quickly reach for a drink. They will get drunk and believe the guests when they say nice things about the art.
VII) Post-Show Depression: Following the show the artist will have temporarily used up all their ideas and will not have anything planned for the immediate future. They are no longer the Art Princess of the day. This makes them even moodier than the time leading up to the show. Definitely avoid them. Give them a call again when they are back to the first or second phase.
In between all of this activity there is the fundamental requirement to network and make connections with people that might one day be useful. That is, to go to galleries, get liquored up, engage in awkward and/or drunk conversation with casual acquaintances, and either feel stabs of jealousy at the tangible success of the exhibiting artists, waves of smugness at the junk other people put on show, or utter boredom. Unless the work has been created by one of our best friends, or one of our art heroes (in which case we will fall hopelessly in love with every speck), the judgments will be swift and often brutally dismissive. But don't judge us too harshly in return. Making art, submitting proposals, getting rejected, is a rough business that doesn't offer many rewards. To venture out on the town and look at other people's work all the while troweling over the septic insecurities within requires a great deal of effort. It is only natural to put up barriers and to be a bit defensive or catty.
This was pretty much my weekend. It wasn't really that bad. Fortunately I am out of stage 7 and back to stage 1 or 2, but after attending five openings in 24 hours, the art scene can start to feel a bit empty and pretty removed from the stuff you get up to during an afternoon in your studio (i.e. art). You realize that you're interested primarily in chatting with your friends, watching the crowd and drinking as much free alcohol as is socially acceptable (which in Scotland = infinite). You realize that your life regularly borders on the ridiculous and absurdly indulgent. Not that I want to knock the art scene too much; subcultures are generally ridiculous under scrutiny. It's not like the food world is much better.
But how do you combat that? How can one become grounded again?
Well, some people have these things called responsibilities like caring for elderly parents or looking after children or renovating their basements and I am pretty sure that these activities are really good at providing them with perspective. I don't have any of these, but I did have a grounding moment in the kitchen when I cooked something that made me scared.
Doesn't look scary up there, does it?
But in fact the sauce above is made from a wild bunny that slowly stewed for over two hours. A whole, skinned wild bunny that I casually bought at the farmers' market the day before (along with some lamb. Bunny and lamb! It must be spring). I was pretty confident that I could cook it without any problem.
On a bright Sunday afternoon, I was alone in the house and ready to tackle this meat. I cleaned the kitchen a bit, sharpened my knife and took the bunny out of the fridge. My confidence waned. I was mostly sure the bunny had lost its head, paws and guts already, but it was impossible to say with 100% certainty. I have never seen a whole skinned rabbit so had nothing to compare this vacuum-sealed flesh in front of me. I really didn't want it to have a head or to have eyeballs. I let it sit on the counter for a bit and had some juice. It crossed my sometimes squeamish mind that now wouldn't be a good time for low blood sugar.
I went back to the bunny and cut into the plastic, lowering the body into the sink.
The bright red piece of meat that was lying at the bottom of my kitchen sink didn't have a head, but still seemed very much alive. This was not the carcass of a factory animal that had quietly acquiesced, but an active little critter that had been shot dead in a field. You could see the ragged flesh and dark, clotted blood around the bullet wound near its front paws. There was still the occasional hair on its back that I tried to wash off. There was a lot more residual blood than a chicken would ever leak and a dark smell of raw, gamey meat was everywhere in the kitchen.
I carried it across the kitchen and placed it on the cutting board. The first step of the recipe was to joint it, or remove the legs and cut the "saddle" (its back) into a few chunks. I have a good knife that can cut a chicken to shreds so I felt that with some determination, bunny bits would be browning in my pot soon enough. An initial hack at a back leg with my knife did nothing but graze the meat and inform me that I was a stupid city girl. Animal bones are a lot harder than chicken carcass. That's why people invented cleavers. I'm just telling you this in case you're as naive as I was. Since I was already using the biggest knife in our house, this meant that the rabbit would have to be hacked and pulled apart with my hands. I write this as a former vegetarian and someone very fond of most small things. It was difficult. I managed to chop and pull and break the little body enough to get one leg off and then the other, although the bottom of the spine and tail bone were still attached too. It was a good thing all of the meat was going to be pulled off the bones for the sauce; I could never have served that carnage. I then cut the flesh all around the spine and snapped a section off. At this point I could no longer think about what I was doing. At this point a creamy white tube slumped out of the meat. It was the bunny's spinal cord. I was glad my blood sugar levels were in check. I cut the cord, and quickly made another incision into the chest cavity, and quickly saw something that liked like a liver or kidney, and quickly decided that it would be just fine to leave the front section intact. I had done enough cutting.
I was freaked out, placing the meat in the hot pan and watching it sizzle and get brown. I hadn't killed the animal, but by washing it, placing my hands on its delicate spine, breaking it apart, its death, all death was palpable. The bunny was also wild, (probably pretty) organic, local, in abundance, delicious. Qualities that I want in food. It was a good reminder that when you choose the non-sanitized option, things can get messy and uncomfortable. And that this shouldn't be avoided, but that you should remember to drink some juice first so you don't faint.
The rest of the recipe was pretty easy and the results were delicious. You can find it here, along with a very good intro on why we should eat wild bunny (although, not now. It's about to be baby bunny season and the little guys need their parents. I got this one just in time. You should wait a bit). The only thing I did differently was at the last stock-reducing stage. I had a lot of stock and it would have taken ages to reduces so I put all of the meat in the tomato sauce, and ladled the boiling and reducing stock into the tomato meat pan a bit at a time. That way the stock reduction was sped up a bit. Otherwise, the recipe was great and the sauce was amazing.
I served it to Lady Jules later on that evening with a warm salad of butter lettuce, pan-fried pumpkin, pumpkin seeds and parmesan. We had caramel and pear soup for dessert. We may have had some wine. We chatted for ages and I hoped that she would always be around to share meals with me and laugh at the difficulties in our often silly lives.
