Outsider Art

Art is often a mysterious process, even though I have argued before that it is not magical. If you want to do it just take a leap off that cliff and land somewhere new. In that vein, I am fascinated by 'outsider art'. 'Outsider' is often a veiled term for someone with a mental illness creating odd and fascinating works, sometimes with bizarre materials and a subject matter only they understand, like the man who spent his whole life creating a giant aluminum foil altarpiece in his basement. There is an obsessive and often disturbing element to these types of works that seem to indicate, if not a mental imbalance, at least a hearty dose of eccentricity. Most trained artists, no matter how outside the mainstream they are, or attempt to be, have a firm foothold in reality and the wheeler-dealer aspects of the profession, along with a sense of discipline and hard work. Many exploit shock value, especially in performance art , in order to gain attention to either themselves or a cause they espouse. In this sense they are rational and calculating. Outsider artists are rarely that. Their work often appeals because it forces the viewer to enter their irrational world (see the film "Junebug" for an offbeat look into this world). However, not all outsider artists are teetering on the brink, or hearing voices in their head, many are just untrained amateurs with a need to pour out what they see in their head, a prime example being Grandma Moses, who, late in life, began painting her charmingly primitive rural scenes.
Which brings me to my Dad. As a trained mechanical engineer, he had some basic skills in drafting, but never showed any interest in art, other than to occasionally like a picture he saw. He was a bit disappointed in my choice for art as a college major, and never quite understood what I was doing with it, although I know he occasionally bragged to his colleagues, and once displayed one of my more hideous efforts in his office in the Math building. So it was surprising that, in the last year of his life, when he knew he was dying, he suddenly became a painter. He purchased the cheapest of paints and brushes, and painted on old pieces of cardboard, then out came all these odd, yet compelling images, that looked half dream, half memory, childlike, and yet full of detail, as if his right brain had just decided to go wild and have a party, even as his body got weaker and weaker. When Andrea and I visited him in Florida, we left with artwork in our hands. He had stacks of them and just let us sort through. Our brother came and did the same. We were all surprised and baffled by this last minute creative splurge. It was as if we we were seeing a part of Vadim that he, himself, was only just glimpsing. My Dad, always somewhat of an outsider anyway, had decided to take a big leap into new territory before he went off into that unknown country.