Photographer Sally Mann in her memoir, Hold Still, describes her process in making the controversial pictures of her children that were published in her book Immediate Family. According to Hold Still, she would get a glimpse or even sense of a picture [read “publishable art photograph”] in perhaps a snapshot or in another image that she had produced with her constant companion, an 8×10 view camera, or even in multiple photographs. Then she would attempt to generate that picture with “dogged intent,” which sometimes resulted in shoot after shoot after shoot, occasionally with discomfort for both the model and the photographer. She goes on to talk about the feeling of exultation experienced when all the pieces come together. She likens it to “the one true sentence Hemingway writes about in A Moveable Feast.”

This post was originally intended to talk about Mann’s self-described process in creating those images—from the inspirational glimpse to the finished product, including all the attempts, the multiple failures, the almost-had-its with all the attendant discomforts and disappointments. And then I read more and thought more and decided that there was something more important to be had from this story—the glimpse.

We all have experienced it, I think, at one time or another. We’re reading a book or watching a movie or a play and suddenly there are these words or actions or a combination that resonate with us so strongly that we sometimes characterize it as “a moment of truth” in the work. It will often cause us to underline, or pause/rewind or stop the car and write down a phrase and maybe a time marker so we can go back to this truth we discovered and do something with it.

But we usually do very little with it besides appreciate it. But that, in turn, might cause us to read more by that author, see more films by that director, and I suppose that is doing “something.” If we appreciate, it becomes part of our psyche, which does influence our artistic output, and that certainly qualifies as “something.”

However, it occurs to me that we could do so much more. We could, like Mann, pursue it. We could take that little piece of truth or beauty or the suggestion of a significant image and build on it. Use it. Let it become a springboard toward the development of our own art—if we thought to do that. And there, I expect, is the problem. We seldom think to do it because we don’t see the possibilities. Mann says that she did not see the potential of her family as subject matter for a very long time because she had removed her “photography eyes,” her term for the sensibility that allows the artist “ecstatic vision,” the “intensely seeing eye” that allows the photographer or the painter or the sculptor or the director or the actor to see parts of the world as proper subject matter for art.

My takeaway from all this is twofold: (1) we need to keep our “intensely seeing eyes” open all the time lest we miss a significant opportunity. (2) When we do get a glimpse of truth or beauty we do something with it more than just jot down a note. We can use that glimpse in any number of ways to enhance and develop our own art, and if we do not, we miss the opportunity to make our work all that it could be.

In a recent conversation with a friend who is both an artist and teacher, I asked whether she was producing any personal work. She said that she had some ideas, but lacked the time to realize them. In fact she joked that she really needed to be a student again to find the time to pursue personal work. This person is a conscientious teacher and has a rather serious computer hobby on which she spends uncountable hours.

While there may actually exist those who honestly do not have the time to produce art, most people, like the artist above, do in fact have the time if they choose to use it. But they have other priorities.

Since teaching art is how the artist mentioned above makes her living, it stands to reason that she would do something else for relaxation. That being the case, it’s disingenuous to say that she doesn’t have the time to work on personal work. Of course she has the time. What she doesn’t have is the motivation. She could easily work on personal work using a portion of her hobby time but does not. It’s just not a high enough priority.

“I don’t have time” is the often-used excuse that really means “I have other things that I want to do more.” And there’s nothing wrong with that. But why not just admit it? It almost seems that people who use the “don’t have time” excuse somehow feel that not having sufficient time for whatever  sounds somehow better than not wanting to do whatever. And that implies, I think, a little guilt for not doing whatever.

Or maybe instead of guilt, it’s a case of “shoulds.” The artist/teacher feels that s/he should be producing personal work. After all, it is expected, right? Maybe not. Maybe teaching is what that person needs to be doing and producing art is not.  Certainly there is no law that says that just because you have training in art-making of some variety that you have to produce. Some who are trained as artists are much better at teaching or researching or producing or selling or curating.

Almost everyone in the art world started as an artist, a maker of artifacts. Along the way, however, some discovered that their interests and even skills lay in what we would probably call ancillary or even art support vocations. So they put away their paintbrushes, their chisels, their poet’s pens, their cameras and got to work in their segment of the art world, contributing in ways that promote the art but don’t involve creating artifacts. And they’re good with that.  Beginning with wanting to make art does not imply a life-long commitment.

On the other hand, I know some teacher/artists who do produce art. Some are prolific and are constantly turning out work. Others produce only a small volume, but that work is usually of very high quality. This makes them no better than those art teachers who do not produce; it’s just who they are and what their priorities are.

If you are a person working in the arts who has decided not to produce artifacts or to produce just a few, good for you. Whatever your decision on making art is, own it. Don’t lie to us or to yourself about your lack of time or whatever. And since there really are no “shoulds,” there really should be no guilt. You’ve made a decision and a valid one; own it.