" Provincial Life " by Christine Clark

It’s difficult developing an article about art, especially for Philip Willey’s newest series of paintings, with the idea of provincialism in mind, but it would be wrong, no matter how easy to ignore the issue, because this show is actually called Provincial Life, a title inspired by a rather pugilistic article written by Brian Grison and published on Exhibit V last year.
It’s an uncomfortable subject because there’s such a bitterness to it, such a narrowness of focus and even, a profound prejudice, all having to do with contempt for place and people, and perhaps in certain circumstances, even the self. Uncomfortable also because, Philip Willey, in spite of his current and apparently provincial residence, is a remarkably worldly man. If you are lucky and able to pry from him his stories, you will find that he has travelled extensively and has in his life been at, or at least near to, the centre of some of the most explosively creative happenings in recent history; London in the early ‘60’s for instance.
Tackling the concept of provincialism is awkward, as well, because it tends to undermine our sense of self, and our self-esteem (for whatever that’s worth), and derides our decisions, our creativity and probably most pointedly, our importance.
Recently, in the company of my husband, who works with people from all over the world, I met a very successful businessman from the US who sells science equipment. Over drinks and finger foods, as is only natural I suppose, this man wanted to ask me questions about my life: who I am and how I live. When he discovered that I live in BC and have, nearly continuously, for my entire life, it became immediately and surprisingly obvious that he thought I was somehow underdeveloped as a human being, and living an unchallenged life. He presumed to have knowledge of me based on this very basic information that in fact he did not have.
This, at least, was my perception, and it was my perception for two reasons. One, is that I have before encountered a similar attitude in people, usually people who have decided to move here to BC from another province, and who have about them an imported superiority, as in, yes, BC is nice, but you know, Quebec has culture, or Alberta has money. The kind of thing that implies that BC is nothing more than a west coast cow town on pot with not much else at hand.
The other reason is that even those of us who have chosen to live on home ground (wherever home ground happens to be) know the difference between living among trees and a population of 300,000 or so, and living in a great and powerful city of sky scrapers and endless activity. We’re sensitive, you see. The fear of being provincial is, perhaps, inherent. We know about the great world and we know about our place within it, and we struggle to live meaningful lives regardless.
Granted, compared to the beautiful and ambitious engineer from Paris, France, the only other woman at the table, I, with my messy hair and my big boobs and my penchant for using words like fuck and fucked and fucking instead of the more elegant of the descriptive phrases, no doubt, come off as a little unsophisticated. But an unchallenged life I have not lived, and challenge, coupled with a certain inner sensitivity provides for an awareness of the world that far exceeds any geographical disability.
Last December, Brian Grison released his essay, The Current State of Art and its Writing in Victoria, in which he remarks, “Victoria suffers from its location far away from the world's important art centres - with all due respect to the important First Nations visual art culture of this coast. Nothing can make up for not living in New York, Paris, London. Beginning artists need constant exposure to the best historic and contemporary art. Art books and magazines, art history and theory courses, images on the Internet, or occasional trips across the continent or ocean to visit important museums and galleries are not enough. Without constant exposure to good and serious art, most writers reflect what is available, and that is mostly provincial.”
It’s an extremely fatalistic point of view, is it not? Not to mention, that after a cursory pull of his forelock in the direction of the First Nations, Grison appears to immediately dismiss their importance as the founding artists of this region, as well as their influence on more recent artists, all kinds of artists, from Emily Carr to the Woodpile Collective, simply because they are not from New York, Paris and London. It’s narrow and it’s ethnocentric. Some might disagree with my interpretation of Brian’s meaning here, but in essence this passage strikes me as remarkably ignorant of what is. It reminds me of the so-called nature lovers who crush beneath their heavy boots the rare and delicate wild flowers on their way to the view.
And besides which, what is to be done? Should we all pack up our various belongings and leave our beautiful home here on the Island to go and live on the mean streets of New York? Apparently so, since not even access to literature or movies or digital imagery or, even travel, for goodness sakes, can make up for the overwhelming affliction we suffer as a result of the endless backwoods in which we find ourselves. Never mind that many of us, myself excluded, have come from those serious centres of the best art in the world to live here, and to share here what they know.
And if we choose not to leave, if we decide we don’t want to live in the so-called (or is that provincial of me to question the unquestionable) centre of things, then should we simply pack up our art kits, our paints and brushes, our drawings and dreams and ideas? Should we decline to write? Should we give up all art-making altogether for fear of mediocrity? Perhaps Mr. Grison and the others out there (if there are any) concerned about our provincial ways will be mollified if we could all just publicly accept our mortifying inferiority. Perhaps if we were to regularly flagellate ourselves? Or at least rend asunder our art works in a frenzy of humiliation?
In his 1974 essay, The Provincialism Problem, Terry Smith writes, “There seems no way around the fact that as long as strong metropolitan centers like New York continue to define the state of play, and other centers continue to accept the rules of the game, all the other centers will be provincial, ipso facto. As the situation stands, the provincial artist cannot choose not to be provincial”.
Perhaps so. Perhaps there is no escape, not now and not ever. Not even if we move to New York. Think about your best friend from art school, the one that the teachers loved so much, the one who was written up in the National Post; chances are good that even she, having moved to New York, will toil in as much obscurity as if she sets up studio on the outskirts of Red Deer, Alberta. There are, as Smith points out later in the same essay, circles within circles.
He writes, “There is a structural hierarchy in the operation of the international art world that centers on the bright stars in the constellation, the few artists, galleries, etc., who are ‘on top’ this decade. No matter how naturally part of the New York art world they might feel, however personally humble they might be as individuals, they remain the ones who define what currently defines art in the culture.”
It seems obvious, after some consideration, that provincialism is merely an order within a great, but evolving, pyramid of importance. Who tops the heirarchy is hard to know. Whether it’s actually the best artists in the world, or whether it’s the Market (those consumers of art we read about in the paper who travel hither and yon purchasing ideas for tens and tens of thousands of dollars) who ultimately defines what is avant garde and therefore important to the world of art I can only guess, although these days it seems most likely that the person with the most money in his or her pocket is indeed the top of the pile, or close to it at any rate, artist or no.
And it’s true here, in Victoria, as well. There are people of importance; the art stars.
Of course, people of importance seem to change rather dramatically from individual to individual, according to personal interests and philosophies about art. Probably money doesn’t play such a huge role here as it does on the larger scene; there isn’t as much available. Importance has more to do with personal popularity and with ingenuity, with being passionate and involved. Some people have managaed to somehow appropriate importance; perhaps it’s like they say, right time, right place. Others stand on self made soap boxes hurling invectives at shadows and everything else in a bid for importance. These are the people to worry about; these are the people who raise the spectre of the hierarchy in an attempt to make others feel (feel) small.
A lot of people just do what they do. Most people, in fact. The question of provincialism is a show stopper, an underminer, a thief. We live in a small city and we make art. We know what we know, we know a lot and still we’re learning. Why should we stop?