Why are some things art, and other things not? Art can be anything, so what is the difference? Art is more than a description of something, it is the result of a process, and is first of all—an expression of its medium, of the materials with which it is made. I believe it is the relationship we have with those materials that determines how something becomes art. Does the resulting form of the object fit the materials we choose for it, and the way we are wanting those materials to be in that form? These seem like big questions to ask when looking at a drumstick made from driftwood, wool and tanned hide. Yet since art can be anything, the fact that I consider this drum stick to be art is a good place to ask why?
In my way of working, it is an equal, and equally elegant, attention to all the parts that makes the resulting object art—whether that art is a painting of nature, a reading of oracle cards, or the interlacement pattern on the back of a drum. Many years ago I listened to a lecture about Christopher Alexander’s pattern language, and on my way up to the front of the room to congratulate the speaker, I stopped midway and wrote these words from the lecture:
Every part, and every part between the part, is whole. And you are artist enough to call forth their riches.
I have never forgotten the shimmer in that idea—that every part is whole. Whether I am needle felting plant-dyed wool onto the felted head, or arranging the alternating lacing according to the smooth and rough surfaces of doe skin, the quality of every gesture I make with the materials, and how those gestures have good fit with the nature of the material—determine moment by moment how art-filled the results will be. I believe I owe the materials this level of attention, because I am asking them to leave their destiny as wood and wool and skin, and enter into my intention. Becoming art seems like the least I can offer, considering what I am asking them to give.
