Monday, January 19, 2026

"Art as an Act of Rebellion in an Authoritarian Age"

 The following is from an online Threads post from "CMK." 

"Art an an Act of Rebellion in an Authoritarian Age"

by CMK

Authoritarianism begins in silence, first encouraged, then enforced.  It begins with a narrowing of permissible emotions, a shrinking of the imagination, and a disciplining of thought.  Before an authoritarian regime controls bodies, it seeks to control language, culture, and meaning.  It seeks to dictate what is real, what is valuable, and what is acceptable to feel.

In a world like this, creating art becomes a major act of resistance.  Authoritarianism thrives on predictability.  Art doesn’t comply.

"The Spirit of Myth,"  88" x 66", Latex Enamel on Canvas
James Thatcher copyright 2003 

Authoritarian ideologies rest on a belief that everything and everyone must serve a function.  Art refuses to justify itself in those terms. A painting doesn’t explain its usefulness.  A poem doesn’t argue its productivity.  A sculpture doesn’t apologize for being “impractical.”  Art’s refusal to be instrumental makes it politically subversive.

Freedom begins in a realm of activities that can’t be rationalized by totalitarian logic.  Creativity occupies this space.  It’s an assertion that some parts of the human spirit can’t, and shouldn’t be optimized, surveilled, or controlled.

"Black Eyed Boy,"  primer on plastic pallet, 48" x 42", plus wooden shard extensions
James Thatcher copyright 2018

To create art is to assert that meaning is not dictated from above, from a hierarchy.  To linger in beauty is to claim time the state cannot monetize.  Imagining beyond the world as it is represents a threat to those insisting there is no alternative.

Authoritarian rule requires the disciplining human behavior and the colonization of interiority, one’s soul.  It demands emotional conformity:  the correct fears, loyalties, and resentments.  It punishes ambiguity, irony, doubt, and longing.  In essence, it attempts to flatten human complexity into a single sanctioned narrative.  Art refuses that flattening.

It gives shape to private grief, desire, and rebellion.  It nurtures an inner life that the state can’t touch.  Even when created quietly, secretly, or anonymously, art is proof that the self has not surrendered.  Everything we create becomes evidence of human autonomy.

"Oregon Pre-Raphaelite," gesso on banana crate liner paper, 80" x 40"
James Thatcher copyright 2018

Also, authoritarian power depends on the public not looking too closely.  Not at suffering or corruption or the small ways that dignity is shaved thin.  Art disrupts a cultivated blindness.  Art makes the invisible visible, and once it’s seen, it can’t be unseen.

Authoritarians understand this deeply, which is why we see movements banning books, censoring films, and an introduction of “good” police aesthetics.  They tell us that art is a luxury, that it’s frivolous and ridiculous, when in reality, it’s dangerous.  Because art teaches people to look, and looking is the first step toward refusing.

"WJCK," digital photo
James Thatcher copyright 2018

Authoritarian systems rely on the idea that individuals are interchangeable and expendable.  Creativity, however, is inherently personal.  No one else can make the exact mark you make.  No one else can produce your precise shade of longing, or rage, or joy.  Art returns individuality to people whom the regime would prefer to remain faceless.  Art reclaims the agency of the soul.

Perhaps the most radical thing art does is propose worlds that exceed the present.  Authoritarianism depends on the idea that the current order is inevitable and unchangeable.  Art refutes this.  Every story, every image, every facet of creation declares that alternatives are possible, that the human mind is larger than any apparatus of control.  In this sense, art becomes a rehearsal for freedom.  The totalitarian state fears artists because imagination precedes revolution.

"Dance," 44" x 66" x 12", wood and jute sculpture suspended in front of latex enamel painting
James Thatcher copyright 2019

Authoritarian powers relay on abstractions: “the nation,” “the enemy,” “the traitor.”  These categories erase individual histories and complexities.  Art reverses that erasure.  It focuses on particularity, on the lived experience of a single person.  It returns humanity to those whom political systems reduce to symbols.

When you paint someone’s eyes, you restore personhood.  When you write a character’s grief, you make their suffering undeniable.  When you carve a shape from stone, you refuse to let the world remain shapeless.  Art nourishes empathy, and empathy destabilizes authoritarian control.

"Hope," digital file, size variable
James Thatcher copyright 2025

So, keep creating art.

--CKMCreates





Friday, January 2, 2026

Artist's Talk, Dennos Museum, 2025

“Bryn Mawr,” the title of this book, is a Welsh phrase that literally translates to “Big Hill.”  Picture Andrew Wyeth’s classic painting, “Christina’s World,” with the woman sitting in the field and the big house in the distance, on top of that hill… “Bryn Mawr.”


"Christina's World," Andrew Wyeth, 1948

A visiting artist saw the paintings that make the pages of this book in the early ‘90’s. She said that they reminded her of “Bryn Mawr.” It was a reference to the Brandywine School of painting, typified by Wyeth. 

This was a surprise because such imagery was the furthest thing from my mind. The level of detail associated with Andrew Wyeth’s paintings was absent from this artwork.  

"Pa-rurw," 30" x 22", acrylic on paper, 1993

Two distinctly different bodies of work meet in “Bryn Mawr.”  A newer aesthetic overlays paintings from nearly 35 years ago.  As such, not only are they from different times, but they have different motivations, and personal histories.

To put the earlier body of work into context:  I was only sporadically making artwork for about 8 years from the mid 80’s to the early 90’s.  Life was happening; my career as a cabinet maker had begun immediately upon graduating from art school in 1984.  

It was a good vocation, and necessary to make a living. 

While the field started out deeply engaging, over the decades it became a grind.  It was hard work, on your feet all day, and the hours and energy it required stunted what I saw as my studio life. 

Certainly, it’s an artistic field in its own right; but cabinet making is a craft marked by repetition and tedium, as well as regular overtime.  The attention to detail required is anything but expressive.  It is a terribly fussy business to produce other people’s designs.  Your work conforms to blueprints and architects, as well as home owners who are paying a lot for custom furnishings.  

When I did get into the studio, it was to blow off steam; slamming away at very messy, highly textural stuff.  

Thrashing.

But I’ve gotten ahead of myself.
 

Back then, in the mid-80’s, I met and married an artist who was also a graduate of my school, the Corcoran College of Art & Design in Washington, DC.  These were difficult years because neither of us wanted to be burdened with our jobs, each of us having serious studio-artist aspirations.  Eventually, we would leave Washington, DC, and move down to the Atlantic coast, to the idyllic eastern shore of Maryland. 

Unfortunately, within 6 weeks of that move, my wife discovered a lump on her breast, and three years later lost her life to that cancer. 

I was the primary caretaker for those years, and as you might imagine, I made no artwork during this time.

Then one night, about a month after her passing, I was sitting on the sofa watching “Roseanne.”  I said to myself that if I were an artist I would be up in that studio, in my wife’s space, making art.  I turned off that TV and went upstairs to begin a body of work that would continue for 20 years.  The pages of "Bryn Mawr" are from the first years of that series.

After some time, a series of drawings had emerged:  renderings of isolated cubes set in an abstract landscape.  (There was a box-making endeavor happening in my own shop at the time.)  These landscape backgrounds became so compelling that I stopped using the cubes entirely.  The images were reduced to a simple horizon line with different textural fields above and below, as you see in this book.


"The Wilderness of Paran," acrylic on paper, 30" x 22", 1993

 But what does one do with a body of artwork?  The classic artist’s conundrum.  These paintings were never shown.  They were easy enough to store and transport though, being works on paper.

Binding them into a book would make them even more convenient for storage and transportation. However, I don’t see myself as a book artist.  This idea was a matter of convenience and book making is its own art form.

Books imply a narrative, a story.  They start somewhere and then end up somewhere else. This was an issue.  They didn’t go anywhere.  This was just old work and it needed to be more.


"A Promise of Canaan," acrylic on paper, 30" x 22", 1993

Since that original body of artwork nearly 35 years ago, the aesthetic had pivoted from an expressionistic abstract type to a geometric body of work.  I had retired from being a cabinetmaker in the wake of the real estate bubble burst in 2008. 

It took some time to realize it, years in fact, but there was no longer any reason to thrash away in the studio—there was no steam to blow off steam because my frustrating daily grind was over.  A bit of an existential crisis…

We had moved to upstate New York, and took a day trip to visit the Dia: Beacon Foundation.  It was a museum of classic Minimal art, housed in a renovated factory that once produced boxes for the Nabisco Company.  The artwork was impactful:  collections of John Chamberlain’s crushed automobile sculptures, Michael Heizer’s enormous boulders mounted into walls, and Richard Sierra’s huge curved steel walls were heavy hitters.

One morning in the wake of that visit, as I was making the bed I had a conversation in my head with a struggling artist.  I told them that if I were them, I’d get some paper and start making drawings of squares.

Realizing that I was talking to myself, literally, I finished making the bed as quickly as possible, ran to the store and bought a pack of computer paper and sat down to draw those squares.


Ideation Drawing, 11" x 8.5", 2011

To my utter surprise, I found myself longing for the technical demands of custom woodworking!  A lot of skill and discipline had been instilled during 25 years in the field.  I immersed myself in drafting exercises, working through ideations of squares, circles, and the like. 

Now, over 15 years later, this geometric language has transformed considerably through many iterations, resulting in the hexagonal designs on these pages of “Bryn Mawr.”

Rhombus/Hexagon Connections, 2023

This change in aesthetic was an accurate reflection of my life situation, just as the bleak landscapes represented my condition in the wake of my first wife's death.

I was able to retire from work in 2011, because of my wife’s success in her career in higher education.  Thirty years ago, when we met on a blind date, she was a college professor.  Over time Deb became involved in administration, eventually ascending to the rank of college president!  In 2021 she was also able to retire and is a full-time quilter.

It’s because of her love, success, and indulgence that I’m able to be a full-time studio artist. Thank you, Deb.

This is how the book comes to be.  It is a depiction of the effects of love on a desolate life.  The big hill book, “Bryn Mawr,” is about elevating a former life and allowing the past to be passed.  What is passed provides a background upon which a beautiful, pristine design is presented, rather than being the whole picture.

“Bryn Mawr” is a love story; it’s about the change that love makes.  These few pages reveal a before-and-after combination of completely different styles and techniques that tells a wonderful story.  A story I didn’t even realize until sitting down to write about it.

And they lived happily ever after :)

https://jtnwdc.wixsite.com/jamesthatcherarts