Kat Eye Studio

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Take the Opportunity

Opportunities are like sunrises. If you wait too long, you miss them.
– William Arthur Ward

As a photographer, you quickly learn the light waits for no one. You decide to sleep in a few minutes, and the light is gone. You decide to go out tomorrow instead, and you find the weather has changed and yesterday’s gorgeous sun is now a bank of grey clouds. You missed your opportunity. There is no going back.

As artists, it’s the same, only the opportunities are not as clearly identifiable as a sunrise. They come as a chance meeting, a passing suggestion. You don’t always recognize them, let alone jump on them, when they come along. Some you might not realize we’re opportunities until years later.

Or, even if you recognize the opportunity, it might not be convenient to act on it at the moment, so you let it pass by. Thinking, I’ll catch it next time. Only to discover later that there is no “next time.” There was only that one time, and you chose to let the opportunity pass.

You might kick yourself later, but it’s the opportunities you’ve missed in he past which help you take advantage of the opportunities of the future. The lessons you learn in missing or taking opportunities stick with you, and you try not to make them as often.

The Salem Art Fair & Festival opens today, so I’m thinking a lot about the opportunities I had last year, the newspaper article, the radio interview, and being offered a book deal out of all of that publicity. Wow. Compare that to this year, where I’m just lucky to be in the fair. I was originally rejected in March but got a call in June asking if I wanted to be in this year. I had to rearrange my vacation to be there this year, but I’ll be there.

Because, you see, I’ve learned my lesson. I see too many missed opportunities and missed sunrises in my rear view mirror. I’m determined that there will be less of them in the future. A little inconvenience is worth it to take advantage of an opportunity. I will likely still miss some, for one reason or another, but I hope that my story is more like, “This amazing opportunity came a long and I dropped everything to take it,” than, “I can’t believe I didn’t do that while I could.”

Take the opportunity when it is presented. Don’t delay.

“Opportunities are like sunrises. If you wait too long, you miss them.”

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Want to be an artist? Get used to disappointment.

  

Being an artist is the most amazing thing you can do. You get to create something from nothing and share it with the world. 

Being an artist is also one of the hardest things you can do, because when you share your art with the world, you are sure to receive rejection along the way.

The more you put your art, and your self out there, the more likely you are to find success. But for every “yes” you hear, you will hear “no” five or ten or twenty times more often. 

As an artist, you have to develop a thick skin. You have to be willing to put yourself out there, again and again, believing you can get the “yes” but being ready to hear the “no.” 

And you know what? It gets both easier and harder with each “yes,” at least for me. A “yes” tends to make me forget, for a brief period of, all of the “no” I normally receive. I forget how much amazing art there is out there, and how small my chances really are for any single “yes.”

Last weekend, I had an opportunity that really solidified the reality of being an artist today. I went to a jury preview event for Art in the High Desert, an art fair held every August in Bend, Oregon. They showed every single one of the 616 applicants for the 110 spots in the fair.  

Stop and think about that for a moment. That’s a 1 in 6 chance of getting in. And it’s even worse, depending on your category. Thank goodness I’m not a jeweler. There were 122 applicants for 12-13 booths. That’s 1 in 10 for them.

  

The thing that hit home most from this event was not what I expected. I expected to learn how images show up in the Zapp jurying system, how a group of images works together, and how the booth shot affects the application. Yeah, I got all of that.

But the most impactful thing? Seeing how darn good all of the art was. I don’t remember thinking, “Wow, that art doesn’t belong here.” I remember seeing a lot of wonderful, high quality work. Enough to fill almost 6 shows of 110 booths each.

Which made me realize… This is probably how everything is in the art world. There are way more great artists than spaces for every art fair or exhibition or grant we apply for. A “no” from any one thing is not necessarily a rejection of me or my work. There is a lot of great work out there. More every day, as all of us artists continue to create and grow and new artists join our ranks. Add to that the subjective nature of a jury selection process, and you start to see the landscape artists have to operate in. 

It also made me realize how precious those “yes” answers are. How hard to come by they can really be. Looking at it from this angle, with a better understanding of how competitive the field is, I realize how lucky I’ve been to get as many “yes” answers as I have in the relatively short time I’ve been putting my art out there.

All I can do as an artist is continue to focus on creating my best work. Continue to grow in my craft, develop my own style, and learn to present myself in the best way possible. 

And then I have to put my work and myself out there.

The only way to get a “yes” is to expose myself to a “no.”
 

If you are an artist, remember this. Don’t let a single “no” stop you. It’s going to happen more often than not, as an inevitable stop on the path to the “yes.”

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Where does art come from?

Is there a place you feel most like yourself? Where you shed the trappings of everyday life and the expectations of others? I have a place like that. Or places, I should say. It’s wherever I find a dirt trail winding among the trees. Wherever I can be surrounded by the forest – tall trees, filtered light, greenery. Just the sounds of the breeze, the birds, and my breath.

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It’s in the forest that I most feel like me. I’m not Kat the artist, or Katrina the engineer, or Trina the daughter, sister and wife. I’m just me, the core of me that doesn’t need a name. The forest reminds me there is this constant, consistent existence inside all of the outer trappings. This essential “me” that is the same no matter what direction I am facing in life, which name and role I’m taking on. I get to be that essential me, get in touch with that core, when I am in the forest. What a beautiful thing!

This lovely realization came through a couple of hikes I managed to squeeze in recently. It’s nice to know that regardless of how busy my life is or how many items on the “to do” list, there is a constant source of peace I can tap into. This realization has also led to an “aha” about my art.

Sometimes, looking at my work in the last couple of years, I’ve wondered how someone who is so busy can create art that is so peaceful and contemplative. I mean really, look at the work I create. It might make you think I live life in some zen way, full of meditation and awareness. Yet I am usually going a hundred miles an hour, filling most of my time with commitments and projects and goals. I have a full time corporate job, I create and sell art, I write and teach, I’m a wife and mother. Doesn’t sound very zen to me.

At times, I’ve wondered: Is the art I create a yearning for something else? Some simplicity that I can’t seem to achieve? But even though I’ve asked myself those questions, it’s never really felt this way. It doesn’t feel like the art comes from a place of emptiness or wanting. It feels like the art is just there. And I reach in and pull it out.

And that’s the “aha”… My art is there. It comes from that constant core, the “me” that’s me regardless of the name I’m using, the role I’m playing. The same self I get in touch with in the forest is the same self that I’m tapping in to when I create my art. It’s always there, always ready to be accessed. It just takes me finding a moment, finding ways to connect with it. Isn’t that brilliant? My art is from a place of abundance, not a place of lack. Because what I have, what I always have, no matter what else is happening in my life, is me.

I’ve always thought that connections brought through art are special. That when someone creates with honesty, you can see the true person through their art. I’m getting a deeper, more personal understanding of that. People who connect with my art are people who see me. The real me, under all of the window dressing of the different roles I play. It explains why I want to sell my art – because getting out there increases those connections. It explains why I love to teach about art – because it helps others find that connection to self too.

All of this has led to me rewriting what I think of as a “welcome” message, for the About me page on my website. Trying to capture who I am and what I do in just a few sentences is a difficult thing, but here’s my first draft…

My art is an expression of who I am, beyond the trappings of a modern, busy life as a mother, wife, engineer, teacher, and artist. There is a place of stillness, peace, and beauty that exists deep within me which comes out in the imagery I create. If my work resonates with you, then you have this special place within you too. I am honored to have made a connection with you. Nothing makes me happier than sending a piece of my art home with you to grace your space, or showing you how to create that kind of connection for yourself.

Welcome to Kat Eye Studio, my online creative space. Get comfortable, grab a cup of tea and make yourself at home here. Let’s connect through art.

What do you think? Does that capture it? Does it let you see a little bit of that real me, invite you to join me? I’d love to get your reactions to this new understanding, these new words.

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A Moment of Convergence

In an artistic life, there are moments when everything comes together: The subject you discover, the piece you create, the audience you find. They all converge and you tap into something special, creating a piece of art that resonates with others.

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That happened last week with this piece, Stillness.

If you ask me, I won’t be able to tell you why this struck a chord. I’m not sure what it is about this image, compared to all of the others I’ve recently created, that connects. I was talking to a friend about it, and she tried to put it into words what resonated for her about this image, “It’s as if I saw something, really saw it, in a different way. You showed it to me that way.”

That sort of caught me off guard. Maybe I’d forgotten and needed to be reminded, but isn’t that what artists do? Artists show us the world with a different point of view. The best pieces of art are the ones that make you stop and think, or better yet, feel something.

It is awesome when that happens with something you create. You feel like you really connected with someone. Maybe tapped into something greater than yourself.

The hard part is, and maybe this is just me, I can’t do it on purpose. I can’t predict which of my work will make that connection. I create, and create, and create, and once in a while things converge. All I can do is that ongoing creation, following the direction my heart and the image wants to go, and the I let it go into the world and see the result.

The thing I do know… If you don’t do this kind or work — creating again and again, practicing, trying new things, and sometimes falling flat on your face — then you won’t ever find these beautiful moments of convergence.

And they, my friend, are totally worth it.

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From Mechanics to Understanding

Do you want to know the best way to learn about your art, your process, your self? About why you do the things you do, the philosophy and motivations behind your work? It’s a very simple answer: You explain it to others.

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I’ve discovered this secret quite by accident, through writing and teaching myself.

I always tell people that I teach because when I love to do something, when I’m enthusiastic about an idea or a process or an art form, it just bubbles up outside of me and I have to share it with others. I love the “a-ha” moment when someone gets it. When I see the enthusiasm catch in someone else and they run with it, in their own direction, I stand by with pride.

I thought that’s why I teach, but I’ve recently realized that is the second payoff in teaching. The first comes in the creation of the materials. In the process of distilling the ideas, of determining how and what my students need to know to move forward, I learn about myself. I learn why I do things the way I do them. Why my process works for me, what the important pieces are and how they work together.

For me, the time and effort I invest to clearly explain something to others is also time invested in understanding myself.

Last week, I finished the first draft of my upcoming book. (Woohoo!) It’s rough, needing a lot of editing and examples and work, but it’s enough for me to see myself more clearly already. You would think that writing a how-to book on iPhone photography is all mechanics, but it isn’t. You can’t teach without a framework, a reference philosophy that guides the intent and organization of the materials.

I had mechanics before, now I have understanding. That understanding will feed more ideas, more creativity, stronger connection to heart and soul. I already feel them brewing.

Have you found the same thing? Maybe it’s not through teaching specifically for you, but the simple act of explaining your ideas to others. In communicating about your art, you gain a deeper understanding of your self. Try it and see. Don’t worry if it’s awkward at first. It gets easier with practice. You refine your thoughts through the give and take of conversation, of question and answer.

When you understand your self better, you create and communicate from a place of confidence. You can say, “This is who I am, what I do and why.” You are less shaken by the criticism of others, less prone to periods of self-doubt.

Want to practice? Explain why you create the art you create to me in the comments below. Link to a blog post if you need more space for gathering your thoughts. Let’s get your conversation going, so you can improve your understanding and confidence too.

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Is it Photography or Not?

The Philomath Open Studios Tour wrapped up on Sunday, and participating as a studio this year was both fun and challenging. Talking to so many people as they came through, I got some interesting questions and comments. The only comment that really stopped me in my tracks came from a couple of other artists participating in the event. We do an artist “pre-tour” of all of the studios, so we can see each other’s work and be able to refer people to the right studios if they are looking for something specific. It’s one of the most fun parts of the whole event, and for me it’s been the way I really get to know the other artists.

“You should call your work something other than photography,” they said, “Your work doesn’t look like any photography I’ve ever seen.” They went on to explain: People may skip my studio because they have an impression of what photography is, and they aren’t interested. I’m losing the chance to get my work in front of them by calling it photography.

I found myself with a pretty strong internal reaction to their suggestion. As I tried to explain my feelings about this as photography, I struggled to find the words. My immediate reaction and inadequate explanation left me uncomfortable. Was there something to what they were saying I should listen to? These folks are my artist friends and peers, and they have my best interests at heart. They respect my work and want to see me succeed.

So, for the last couple of weeks, I’ve had a renewed internal dialogue around this question: Is it photography or not? Should I change the way I position and market my work? I’ve answered this question before. But I needed to answer the question for myself, again, in a way I could confidently explain it to others, especially artists in other mediums.

My answer?

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Yes, my work is photography. I will continue to call it photography, even if there is some fallout along with that. Here’s why…

My work starts as a photograph. The seeing and framing through the lens of the camera is vitally important. My art wouldn’t exist without the starting photograph, and the capture of the starting image is one of my favorite parts of my process of creating in this medium. I spent years and years learning to coax beautiful images out of the camera, from the technical expertise of exposure to the creative expertise of composition, and I use that experience every time I take a new photograph. Even if I’m altering it significantly, it starts with the photograph. I want to honor that.

I also want to honor the medium. Photography has a rich and interesting history. It is a wider and deeper medium than the general public understands. Most people’s interaction with photography is from what they see in the media — photojournalism and commercial photography — or their own experience with snapshots. Mobile photography is even less understood. Most people haven’t necessarily seen or explored fine art photography. They don’t know the range of art that the term “photography” truly covers. Why not help educate them, just a little bit? Why not expand their definition? We are never going to get past the limited perception of what a photograph is “allowed” to look like, if some of us don’t stand out there and push those boundaries.

This is where I had to stop and examine myself closely. Am I hurting myself, my ability to get my work in front of people to connect with them through my art, through taking on some one-woman crusade to expand the definition of photography? Am I hurting my sales by sticking with the “photography” moniker? I don’t think so. I’ve had many photographers tell me in the past that you can’t sell photography. People don’t want photographs. Given my results as I ventured into art fairs this year, I’ve not found that to be universally true.

But that fundamental belief — people don’t want to buy photographs — must be a driving factor behind some of the practices I’ve seen a few photographers use. I’ve witnessed people who are using altered photography techniques selling their work as nebulous “fine art prints.” No acknowledgement of the starting photograph. It’s not a lie, per se, because they truly are fine art prints, but it’s an omission that leaves the medium up to the imagination of the viewer. Let the viewer think it’s a reproduction of an original in another medium; what they don’t know doesn’t hurt them. That may be ok for other artists, but it would feel dishonest for me. Almost self-negating, as if I need to hide my medium in order for the work I produce to have value. And also not respectful of the artists who have spent years to hone their craft in other mediums. My work may end up looking a bit like a watercolor or some other medium, but it’s not. I don’t want to claim it is.

I want my work to stand on its own, for what it is. A photograph. An altered photograph, sure. But it starts as a photograph.

My art is a piece of me that I put out in the world. So when I make a sale, I want it to be an honest and heartfelt transaction. How I put my work and myself out there really matters to me. I want to connect with people openly and with integrity. I want to have a dialogue about what I’m creating, how I’m creating and why. I want to hear what the viewer has to say, how my work makes them feel. I want to honor all of those who came before me, who taught me, who paved the way for me to create in this medium, too.

So I will continue to call my work and my medium photography. I’m a photographer, and I’m proud of it. I’m happy to have the dialogue about what makes it photography. I relish a good discussion about the art of photography, and like the idea of opening some minds to new ideas about what a photograph can be.

And the folks who aren’t interested, who chose not to come to my studio because of their preconceived notions of what photography will look like? It’s their loss, not mine. They don’t know what they are missing.

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