I once watched Andy Warhol’s brother stumbling through a TV interview. He was a stocky, salt-of-the-earth, aging farmer—as wholesome as oatmeal porridge. He apparently had little grasp of the contribution “Andy” had made to contemporary American art. How the two of them could have graduated from the same womb, amazed me. Somehow, by accident or design, Andy Warhol’s artistic DNA was marvelously orchestrated, finely tuned.

 

Artists are often socially inept and vulnerable; those born without a skin, who suffer because they think and feel very deeply. The extra-ordinary artistic temperament is often bi-polar, sometimes depressed or schizophrenic. For those artists, creativity drains off the abscesses of the soul; bringing order to a chaotic, over-sensitive personality. Other highly creative individuals conduct their lives with the business-like efficiency of suit-attired Paul Klee. They perform like his dancing, well synchronized, primary-colored geometric harmonies. Wanna-be artists—groupies in outlandish attire, dabblers in depravity—often look more “arty” than the artists they champion. They too have social influence, but are seldom members of the inner ring. They remain on the fringe.

 

True artists bare their souls to the world. Their works are self-emptying labors of passion. They are also barometers; the social consciences and mirrors of their times. What motivates them? Sincere artistic expression is not driven by greed for money, nor is it an act of exhibitionism. As the “seer,” it is a need to share clarity of vision. As the scientist, it is to extend boundaries, to explore the unknown. As the creator, it is to produce a thing of power or beauty to present to mankind.

 

True art is a sacrificial offering, a precious gift tremulously given to fellow human-beings. The gift can be accepted, appreciated, thirstily imbibed—like sweet water from the last oasis on a parched planet. It can be briefly admired in passing, quickly glossed over, flippantly thrown back in the face of the giver or discarded in next month’s trash. It can be scornfully derided or critically analyzed with razorblade phrases that lacerate the exposed giver’s soul. The artist is essential and expendable. The artist is pedestaled and ridiculed. The artist is a blessing, a curse; a visionary, a lunatic; a genius, a joke. 

 

Excerpt from 'Colour on My Wings: Chronicles of a native South African'