The Reason for “Between Two Poles”
By: Kurt von Behrmann
South Mountain Village, Phoenix, Arizona
Friday, January 15, 2016
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| Pferd, An acrylic on Canvas Painting by Kurt von Behrmann |
Between Two Poles Opens: February 4th, 2016 at the Shemer Art Center
Location: 5005 East Camelback Road, Phoenix, AZ 85018
“How deeply can you delve?” This was both a question and a
challenge. Constructing pieces for
“Between Two Poles: A Bipolar Themed Exhibition,” demanded discipline and a
considerable amount of introspection. When
bipolar disorder is the theme, an inward gaze into the depths of the psyche is
a given.
Chronicling
manic highs and depressing lows, characteristics of this enigmatic condition,
reliving my personal experiences became necessary. A considerable amount of anguish had to be
recalled in order to find the most effective way to express what it feels like
to be in constant flux. It is said we
forget pain. This is not true when mood disorders are involved.
In order to express what this
affliction feels like, a willingness to take risks became necessary. Addressing topics like alienation can be done
with a certain economy. The theme is
concise. Moving into the complex territory
of oscillating mental states frequently meant eschewing austere expressive
tactics. Recognizable imagery and
narratives were more effective communicators, in some instances.
More than just a few artists have
lived with bipolar disorder. The connection
between creativity and this illness are still being studied. The idea for this
exhibition came to me midway while reading
Dr. Kay Jamison’s Touched
with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament. Incidentally, Jamison has bipolar disorder.
In the process of dealing with my
bipolar disorder, I experienced a period where I began to cut myself. My depressions brought me to a place where
this was a release from pain. Of all the
things a mentally ill person can do, cutting is the most private. Either as a prelude to a suicide, or a way to
communicate incorporeal pain physically, it is ultimately a visual reminder of
just how bad this affliction can be. Scars
become travelogues of a trip to a kind of sorrow that perhaps only images can
convey.
In one cutting episode, I had a vision. It was very clear. I saw an eagle, wings spread, with an arm on
either side. The eagle was divided into
a dark side and a lighter side. The arm
on the right showed the cuts. The arm on
the left showed none. Each arm represented the dual nature of bipolar disorder. Sometimes you have very rough ideas of what
you want in a work. This was not the
case. The completed work matched up
tightly with the mental image I had painted in my mind.
Something very similar happened
with “Pferd.” In that painting I saw a
horse perpetually running between two poles, representations of mania and
depression. Again, the finished work matched up very
closely with the image I had in mind.
Representational imagery was
emerging in my work after a long disappearance.
For the most part, my previous efforts had been abstract paintings, constructions
or hard to define hybrids between sculpture and painting. Representationalism was confined to my
drawings.
As the new pieces were completed, I
had emerged as something of a symbolist.
Objects were not just objects but symbolic presentations of abstract
ideas. Horses became symbols for the
mind in anguish. Birds became crippled souls in flight.
One of the things I made an effort
to avoid was using this as therapy. For
me, art has never been therapeutic. The
discipline, the ideas, the effort, even the very drive to create it requires that
you be highly functional, or at least slightly manic but in some control. To just express minus the fine tuning that is
a key element of art never held interest for me. Sharpening ideas is what transforms materials
into artistry.
When I was engulfed in deep
depression, everything shut down.
Nothing was worth doing. The
desire to just be was absent. The technical
term for that state is anhedonia, when nothing brings you pleasure. All you have around you is emptiness. It is a
void so empty there are no colorful images. One wakes up and feels the
relentless void of nothing. Capturing
that in a body of work is not easy.
The artistic drive can be fueled by
sadness. It can express it, but if
caught in bipolar depression that is too deep, it can shut down the drive to
create. There were periods where I
could not work. Only when I was far
along in my therapy was I able to start the creative process again.
Mania is a powerful creative
force. It allows you to pull ideas
together. It can help you see what
cannot be seen. Depression is the
gravitas. It is what makes what you do
serious, meaningful and important. The
two are the twin souls of art. You
cannot have one without the other. The
obvious disadvantage is that it drains the creator.
If you want to make art, a piece of
your soul is involved. You have to be
willing to go to places most people seldom do.
You need a heart and soul as delicate as butterfly wings, and the hide
of a Rhinoceros to make art, even for a moment.
"If I got rid of my demons,
I’d lose my angels," said the late Playwright Tennessee Williams. With bipolar disorder, you don’t really have
to worry about that. The demons never go
away. You simply learn handle them a bit
better and make art from the shrapnel that is left.
Abbreviated Version
"If
I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels," said the late Playwright
Tennessee Williams. The idea of the artist single mindedly
following a vision oblivious to the world and suffering for it is a
cliché. But is it? The connection between intellectual
achievement and madness could be far less tenuous than previously
believed. Dr Kay Jamison made a
compelling case for the tie between bipolar disorder and artistic expression in
“Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic
Temperament.”
The
list of artists who have had mental illnesses reads like a who is who in fine
art. Before I was diagnosed with Bipolar
disorder, it was not something I had given much thought. It was not until I was diagnosed did I realize
that for me this affliction was both a blessing and curse.
Once
called Manic Depressive, what makes this brain disease valuable for creativity
is that it allows you to think quickly, connect unlikely ideas and have the
energy to stubbornly persist where others relent. The enthusiasm, the willingness to take
risks, the flaunting of convention and the grand operatic gestures are the part
of what makes this so invigorating.
Even the depressions allow you to experience pain to such a degree that
you can express the most profound sorrow without reservation.
What
creates also destroys. The list of
artists, scientists and writers who committed suicide, destroyed themselves or
had great difficulty coping with the world is long, not short. The kind of effort being original demands is
great. It can take a huge toll.
As I
was dealing with my own demons, and angels, I thought why not make the process
of dealing with bipolar the subject of an exhibition. This was not art as therapy. Nearly anyone can do that. That may not even be interesting to see. But, a serious investigation into bipolar as
a source of inspiration for imagery and ideas, that to me had merit.
Describing
epic lows, depicting exuberant highs, that is the stuff of which all art is
made. It is the mixture of the beautiful
with the tragic. It is a balancing act
between the heavens above and the dark canyons below.
When I
began this journey, I was not sure what I would find. I was traveling with just
nerves, feelings and a battered mind. I
was focused, excited and up one day, then down and depressed the next. Through all of this, I created.
Eventually,
the driving force of creativity returned. Between Two Poles is a travelogue of
my adventure within bipolar and the universal themes that art has always been
drawn, the glorious and the tragic.
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