WHAT ARTISTS RARELY KNOW: THE DISTRACTION BETWEEN CREATIVE MINDSET AND CULTURAL CONSCIOUSNESS IN ART

In the psychology of art, the artist's existence is not a static, unified whole. It is a fragmented entity, constantly fluctuating between two opposing states: the creative person and the cultural person. This "mismatch" between these two levels of consciousness is not a technical flaw, but rather the core impetus that gives life to the work. When an artist creates, they operate as a channel of the unconscious; but when they pause to sign or interpret, they are forced to assume the role of the viewer first, with all their available cultural filters. The gap between "making" and "understanding" their own work creates a tangible crack, where the true artistic energy resides.

In the initial stage of creation, the artist enters a special psychological state that researchers call "flow." At this point, social identity and systemic consciousness are temporarily pushed aside. The artist is no longer an individual controlling their hand at will, but becomes a conduit. Energy from the deep layers of the unconscious—repressed feelings, memories, and nonverbal vibrations—is released directly onto the canvas. In this state, the act of drawing precedes perception. The brushstrokes appear as a natural reflex, uncontrolled by rules of composition or learned aesthetic standards.

This "channel" role allows the artist to reach the hazy regions of consciousness, where language has yet to name them. This is the process of "drawing the unknown." If the artist were to completely master their brushstrokes rationally from the outset, the work would merely be an illustration of an idea. The power of art lies in its ability to transcend the limitations of logical thinking. As a channel, the artist does not create beauty but rather "captures" the beauty present in the invisible vibrations of reality. This freedom can only be achieved when the "cultural person"—full of prejudices and stereotypes—accepts silence.

The tragedy or turning point of the creative process occurs the moment the artist puts down their brush and steps back. This moment marks the transfer of power from the unconscious to the conscious. By deciding to sign their name on the painting, the artist escapes the role of creator to become the first "judge." The signature is an act of asserting ownership, and at the same time, the "Superego" emerges to compare the newly created product with social norms, tastes, and the history of painting.

The artist's "backwardness" at this stage is inevitable. The "cultural person" uses the knowledge accumulated from the past to read an entity born from the future of creation. When the artist views their own painting through the eyes of the viewer, they begin to impose logical structures to explain what was originally an instinctive outburst. This gap often creates a cruel strangeness: the more deeply an artist is immersed in painting, the more alien the painting seems when they stop. This disharmony reflects the reality that consciousness always lags behind intuition. What intuition has uncovered, consciousness takes a long time to systematize or name, and often the name is forced.

When the artist takes the next step of naming the painting or interpreting the work, the gap widens even further. This is the most tragic stage, where language attempts to confine the wild beast of creativity within the cage of concepts. Language, by its very nature, is a limited and highly conventional system of symbols. Meanwhile, the experience of painting is a multifaceted and non-calculating entity. When an artist declares a color or shape to represent a specific idea, they are performing an act of "nailing" meaning, depriving the work of its right to live.

Adequate explanations often bring a sense of security to the public and the artist themselves, but they are poison to art. When a painting is explained too explicitly, it ceases to be an open dialogue and becomes a one-sided lecture. The ambiguity in direction that many artists experience is actually a sign that they have not yet found the connection between raw creative energy and cultural expression. However, if this gap disappears completely – meaning the artist paints exactly what they think and say – then the work often becomes dry, dogmatic, and lacking the resonance of invisible energies.

Great works of art are often those that maintain an open "rift" between mind and consciousness. This rift is where the audience can enter and find refuge. If the artist fills that void with superficial explanations, they stifle the viewer's ability to co-create. The artist's ambiguity, it turns out, is a gift to the public. It creates a free space where viewers are not imposed upon by the author's exclusive interpretation. In that ambiguity, the audience does not seek the artist's intentions but finds a reflection of their own soul.

The autonomy of a work of art begins when it breaks free from the protection of words. An autonomous work is an entity with its own life, capable of interacting with the world through its own language of form and color. The most controversial works in the history of painting are often those where the disconnect between the cultural consciousness of the era and the artist's creative energy reaches an extreme level. The cognitive shock they create compels viewers to look longer, to feel more deeply, instead of merely scanning for information. Controversy is not a sign of failure, but proof that the work has succeeded in breaking through the frozen state of outdated cultural prejudices.

In mainstream art education, attempts are often made to bridge this disconnect by teaching students how to rationalize the act of painting. Prioritizing clear, defined criteria inadvertently deprives the work of the "grace of ambiguity"—the very essence of creativity. An artist trained to always "know what they're doing" often falls into the trap of repetitive techniques. They become intellectual painters, producing works that are highly interpretable but lack the lifeblood of inspiration.

The journey of a true artist is often a lifelong, "anti-educational" process of rediscovering the innocent gaze of the first viewer. Technique is no longer the goal, but is relegated to the subconscious to serve a sacred ambiguity. The capacity for self-reflection – the ability to ask fundamental questions without seeking a definitive answer – is key to preserving this space of freedom. When a great painter, at the end of their life, still asks, "What is painting?", they are demonstrating that they remain connected to an infinite source of energy, uncorrupted by fame or market definition.

Looking beyond the realm of painting, the gap between the "acting man" and the "reflective man" is the space for freedom in all life experiences. A life that is too clear-cut, too planned by cultural concepts and logical goals, is often a life lacking inspiration. Accepting ambiguity, daring to live with the cracks of reality, and maintaining a distance to be a viewer of oneself is a way for each individual to avoid being crushed by social identification systems.

The disconnect between consciousness and awareness is not a tragedy to be salvaged, but a rhythm to be maintained. It is a state of energetic suspension, where the new always has the opportunity to sprout from what has yet to be named. When we stop trying to fill the gaps with satisfactory but superficial explanations, we begin to truly touch the essence of existence. Art, and more broadly life, lies not in clear-cut answers, but in the courage to confront the invisible and to allow the energy of uncertainty to guide each individual's creative journey.

NGUYEN HUNG

(Excerpt from an art notebook)

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