By Laurie Donaldson
James Baldwin once wrote: “It seems to me that the artist’s struggle for his integrity must be considered as a kind of metaphor for the struggle, which is universal and daily, of all human beings on the face of this globe to get to become human beings.”1
In a finely written and wry account of her own slow and difficult development into artist and writer, Susan Finlay here depicts her own struggle with great panache.
This revelatory and exhilarating memoir describes Finlay’s path into the artistic community delivered in a melange of genres and styles: poems, artworks, a screenplay, emails, conversations, diary entries, and even a section to be read as a piece of slam poetry. Such an off-beat approach works well as it is underpinned by self-reflection and self-criticism, cultural awareness, and wild tangents that only add to its overall charm.
An epigraph by Giorgio Vasari serves to contextualise what follows, emphasising the importance of initial inspiration and avoiding too much effort, which is followed by a quote criticising Vasari, pinpointing the inherent dangers this can have regarding artistic truth. Finlay thus signals she willing to consciously undermine both herself and her work, a self-disparagement that is a thread running throughout. Indeed, the Preface includes one of her few poems (we could happily have done with more), ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’, which offers the line “I find myself as if by chance”, which nicely sums up her serendipitous style.
Finlay is not afraid of exposing herself and her travails, so there is anguished self-awareness – akin to confessional writing – of the path she is on, littered with cultural asides. Although she calls herself an observer, this is not really the case, it is more that the well-trodden life she attempts is not straightforward.
Her patchwork writing style can come across as a (resoundingly opinionated) stream of consciousness, but this is disruptive memoir, gleefully subverting the form. The focus is on awareness of self and the milieu of the art world, as she makes her way with bright intelligence.
Describing herself as an artist who writes poetry and fiction rather than the other way around, Finlay is a cultural magpie, a namechecker not namedropper, in deconstructing the life she seeks. The referencing is both considered and interesting, and obviously not for affect beyond displaying knowledge and understanding of her preferences and where they lie within the cultural landscape.
Lacking much in the way of chronological consistency, and being no worse for that, her chattiness brings the reader into the room with her, to understand the choices she has had to make. It is all keenly described, from her early passion for music and clothes and trying to be cool and fashionable, to dropping out of a philosophy degree, to low wage short-term contract jobs while wanting to become film maker, moving back in with parents and working in a call centre.
And there are whip-smart observations on her self-oppression, likes and dislikes, the ageing process, cool versus uncool. For instance: “Whenever I feel like toasting my enemies – who don’t even know that they are my enemies and to be honest I don’t even know why they’re my enemies anymore – I go to a private view at the Gropius Bau in Berlin, where I live like a hipster.”
But having delivered this aperçu, she then offers interesting insights into exhibitions at the gallery. And we also forgive comments such as “although ‘taste’ is now a meaningless conceit my meaningless conceits tend towards the recherche”, since her tongue-in-cheekiness is usually followed by further droll reflections on her life.
As a seeming aside, Finlay remembers holding a smooth round stone and tracing a coiled fossilised imprint, before admitting that this may not have happened. This is another trope in the book, as she often undermines comments with uncertainty about their truth (“all of this happened – or didn’t happen”).
She is an unreliable narrator in terms of personal truth and memory, which may seem strange in a memoir but only emphasises that all art is an attempt to represent some sort of honesty while not necessarily being honest with oneself. There are even footnotes that undermine the veracity of what she has just told us.
If honesty in producing art is not a necessity, becoming known within your chosen world is important. As Finlay points out, on gaining some traction, “Suddenly I was desperate to start making artwork again because suddenly I had an audience – or an idea of an audience – to make work for and I realised that even though I had always considered myself to be something of an introvert I needed witnesses as well as money.”
In one of series of contemporary interdisciplinary writing published by JOAN – and this beautifully produced book is the very definition of that approach – we are her witnesses. Finlay is scabrously honest about the art world she comes to inhabit, and The Lives of the Artists is a gem, not uncut but multi-faceted – an exploration of growing into oneself, not a justification of a lifestyle. And we are gleefully allowed along for the ride.
About our contributor
Laurie Donaldson is a writer and editor based in Greenock. He is a member of the Greenock Writers’ Club, the Federation of Writers (Scotland) and the Association of British Science Writers. He regularly reads at open mic events, has had poems published in a couple of local anthologies and zines, and pieces used as inspiration by dance and art groups for a local festival. He has three poems in the latest edition of Dreich magazine, a football-themed poem just added to the Primo Poetica Collection and a poem forthcoming in Cold Moon Journal.
- “The Artist’s Struggle for Integrity”, in The Cross of Redemption: Uncollected Writings (Vintage International, 2011). ↩︎
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