Do We Collaborate

Walking through the Couse-Sharp Historic Site in Taos Sunday, I was led to think about collaborating: how we do it, as women artists and writers—if we do it. The idea has always made me a little squeamish; at breakfast, a woman in red velvet and turquoise had regaled us with her stories of commune life in nearby New Buffalo sixty years ago, but when her friend suggested that we collaborate on a book, I shrank. And later, at the Couse-Sharp House, which combines the connected studios of these two early twentieth century painters, I was led to wonder again: were they really as comfortable, painting together all summer long, as they appeared to be from their photographs? And did that collaboration somehow extend to the creation of the Mobile Machine Shop Aviation model, created by Kibbey Couse in a workshop attached to his father’s studio? More than 1000 models were created in a Kibbey’s New Jersey factory and used extensively by the Allies in World War II since they could be driven to a disabled warplane, repairing it on site.

It’s impossible to know the answers to these questions, although certainly the two men continued to paint together for more than twenty years, their friendship founded at The Chicago Institute of Art and the Académie Julie in Paris. There, Sharp drew charcoal studies of nudes that to me surpassed all of his southwestern landscapes; how much of their comfort together grew from submitting to the same academic requirements? And if this association was and is essential, how injured have we women artists been by exclusion?

The requirements for entry to the prestigious Paris art schools were rigorous and not in line with our respect for individuality and originality, but these requirements did ensure a mastery of drawing before painting could begin. And, by 1882, the earlier association of art with disreputable habits had begun to fade. Henry Bacon wrote, “Respectable fathers who had respectable grandfathers now allow their sons to adopt the profession of art even before they have made failures at other professions or crafts.” But women were still excluded, “considered physically and mentally incapable of serious achievement in the arts.” (Jo Ann Wein) When, finally, a life class for women was offered at the Philadelphia Academy for Fine Arts, “It almost created a riot.” But by 1880, the Academie Julian was admitting women, including them in nude drawing classes, without causing a similar outburst. The nude posing in this painting, though, is a child.

All this is a long way from the Couse-Sharp studios. The question I raised remains. I have never seen joint studios set up and used by twentieth-century women artists, which of course doesn’t mean they don’t exist. But when the entrance has historically been so narrow and remains narrow to galleries and museums, is competition between women intensified, making cooperation more difficult?

There is another reason, I think, for the difficulty women artists and writers face, and it has nothing to do with a perhaps unsympathetic world. It has to do with the quality of concentration required for superior work. I find this issue confronting me nearly every day when friends are unable to understand why I am so seldom available and my family resists the fact that I keep my cell phone turned off.

This depth of concentration threatens our traditional availability.

 

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4W just published a noteworthy speech delivered by Phyllis Chesler at the Women’s Declaration International (WDI) USA national conference on September 25th. Below is a brief excerpt. Phyllis Chesler is an Emerita Professor of Psychology, the author of 20 books, including Women and Madness (1972), An American Bride in Kabul, and Requiem For a Female Serial Killer (2020).

Write Only If You Absolutely Must

Phyllis Chesler

Were I to tell you how hard it is for most writers to survive, get published, keep getting published, you might not believe me. And I want you to write—but only if you’re a writer, if writing is the way you breathe. Otherwise, as the Ancient Mariner once said: “Turn back before it’s too late.” But if you ARE a writer—then you must write because you cannot live without doing so.

Words matter. Language matters. They can enlighten, inspire, entertain, and support a feminist awakening. They did. They can also function as our legacy to the coming generations.

It is our enormous privilege to be literate and educated and for some of us to be able to publish books, articles, poems. Historically, most women were not taught to read and write and were frowned upon if they wanted to publish. Even the great George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans) published under a pseudonym.

But here’s a necessary perspective.

Many (white, male) writers throughout history have also suffered from both poverty and plagiarism. If they were not born rich, they all had day jobs. Many were never paid for their published writing. Some had to PAY to be published. Writers—even the greats—also suffered scathing reviews. Some were censored, their books burned. Some were imprisoned, sent into exile, or murdered for their thought crimes either against religion or against the state.

In our time, our work, especially our best and most radically feminist work, simply goes out of print and stays there. It dies softly. It does not get translated into other languages. We are lucky if it is noted at all, even if only to be critically savaged. More often, it is simply not reviewed. The tree falls, no one hears the sound.

The full speech is available on the 4W website.

 

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In Women, Writing, Art Phyllis Chesler