On Poetry and Painting
By acclaimed poet and translator (and painter) Andrea Jurjević
One of my earliest memories is pretending to write—my hand gliding over paper, I’d imitate the lines and loops I’d seen grown-ups do. When the paper was filled, I’d bring it to my mother and enthusiastically ask, Mama, read this! What does it say? Amused, she’d tell me she couldn’t, that the scribbles I drew didn’t mean anything. I was convinced, though, that those marks had meaning—a mysterious, perhaps mystical, certainly otherworldly meaning that was not yet apparent to me but that adults were privy to. I believed that something special was expressing itself through me.
Most of us draw and doodle freely as children before we learn how to write. It’s hard to tell when drawing becomes writing. But I think that the impulse behind the two is the same—to act on the feeling of inspiration and create. The word "inspiration" comes from "inspire," which means “to breathe.” So, feeling inspired means being filled with breath, which in turn makes us feel more alive. When inspiration knocks within me, my primary modes of expression are visual and verbal. Poetry and painting. That’s where the unconscious meets the conscious for me.
I’ve always been a dreamer, a fantasist, and an avid reader. But a series of life events (my father’s death, war, dropping out of high school, hesitantly putting down roots in the US) caused a confusion of identity within me. It took me a decade of feeling lost only to return to the same activities I previously enjoyed. I experienced two great shifts—when I started painting and when my appetite for reading was upstaged by a relentless desire to write. Behind these was not so much a desire to express myself but to discover something that is beyond my grasp at the moment of making.
I came to poetry through painting. My former husband and I owned an art dealership that supplied furniture stores and interior designers with original decorative art, mostly oil paintings from American and international artists. My job was one of support, including touching up paintings that got damaged in transit or required color adjustments—usually clients’ requests to add accent colors that matched their décor. Touching up was tedious, uninspired work, and the majority of the paintings—replicas of Flemish still lifes, impressionistic Tuscan landscapes, and such—didn’t resonate with me at all. It wasn’t until I met a couple of phenomenal local women artists that I was inspired to start painting on my own.
There was a thick roll of raw canvas that had been collecting dust on our garage shelves. I stretched a bunch of large pieces and primed them. I didn’t know what I was working toward; I was lead entirely by music and intuition. What came out was a series of colorful, layered acrylic abstracts with sometimes bold marks. It was a visceral and therapeutic experience. And while I initially saw these paintings as private experiments, my husband saw value in them—and sold them. Seeing that people were paying good money for them was a big boost of confidence for me.
20x24 mixed media, 2009
36x48 mixed media, 2009
36x48 mixed media, 2011
36x36 mixed media, 2011
Once the gates of creativity opened, I started writing poetry. Whenever I could find time—while my children were napping, at night, and on weekends—I’d read and write and look for local writing groups. I already had a degree in journalism, so I understood how specificity and economy of language work in relation to conveying complex meaning. This came in handy for writing poetry. But writing, especially in a second language, is a slow process. So, when I’d get tired of working with words, I’d turn to canvas. I’d go to the garage, prop up a few canvases, put music on, and get to work. My mind softened from writing, I’d morph from a thinking animal to an animal in motion—applying marks on canvas and responding to them, loving the physicality and instant gratification that comes from making a painting.
Over the last ten years I’ve prioritized writing. Last year I picked up painting again, this time at the kitchen counter, working mostly on a smaller scale. I miss the large canvases and hope to return to them in the future. Regardless of the size, though, or even the marketability of the finished pieces, I keep noticing the parallels between my process of painting and composing poetry. Here are some of my observations:
No such thing as a failed creation
I rarely see a piece of art or a poem as a failure. It may be incomplete or not fully conceived yet. Or, it may suck overall but contain wonderful bits that can be repurposed. For example, I can use a watercolor I’m not thrilled with as collage paper. With poems, I can keep sections that I like and incorporate them into new texts, where they provide unexpected texture.
Starting over and radical cuts
Artists regularly paint over old pieces. Poets scratch out drafts all the time, too. Sometimes I’ll gesso a piece I am not happy with and start fresh. Other times, I’ll cover parts of a painting in a neutral color to allow for the most interesting elements to come forward, and work from there. My favorite, though, is to identify the area that stands out, cut it out, and then frame it. Same with writing. I might start fresh or do a radical revision—remove massive sections of a poem and only keep the most interesting part—and then edit that part as a standalone piece.
Know yourself
It’s useful to know our tendencies and temperaments as artists. For example, I have many sketches that are interesting, but the composition is off. Same with poems. I have poems that might have a compelling voice, but the structure’s not there. Gregory Orr talks about the four temperaments in poetry: story, structure, music and imagination. He explains that structure and story create limitations in poems, while imagination and music resist limitation. And for a poem to have “stability and dynamic tension,” the limiting impulses need to fuse with the ones that push in the opposite direction. Makes sense! My fundamental temperament is imagination. Images and metaphors pop into my mind and roll off my tongue. But I sorely lack structural temperament. Knowing that, I try to go deeper with my imagination and be more intentional about what I need to nurture.
Have courage to explore
It’s important to experiment without worrying about the result. I usually sketch on cheap paper. Those sketches are low-stakes ways to have fun, test new techniques and push boundaries. Same with poetry. While I work toward completing the next collection, I don’t just write what conceptually fits into that book. Exploration in art is like flirting—we don’t know what it’ll lead to. And that is where the energy is.
Respect silence and negative space
Negative space in a painting, that unoccupied area around subjects, is essential in driving focus. Without it, there’d be no way for the eye to be led to the subject. A poem, on the other hand, makes fantastic use of silence. It’s a major ingredient in creating tension, interruption, suspense, release, structure, and so on. Negative space and silence allow us to see and hear.
Love,
Andrea
https://www.instagram.com/andrea.jurjevic_art/
7x10 watercolor mixed media, 2024
10x10 mixed media on wood panel, 2024
9x12 mixed media on watercolor, 2024
"I’d morph from a thinking animal to an animal in motion"-- love this!
As a collage artist that also writes poetry, this perfectly captures my experiences. I love how you describe the change from "a thinking animal to an animal in motion" and the pleasure of the physicality of making art. I really identified with that! Your parallels between the two processes are very familiar, but I'd never thought of them like this before. Really enjoyed reading and seeing your artwork too - your use of color is brilliant. Thanks for this!