The early days of the Covid-19 pandemic brought out the artistic impulses of many. Stuck at home with little to do, people started baking bread and learning new crafts. Celebrities, for some reason, thought it was wise to record themselves singing John Legend’s “Imagine” and put it together in some sort of post-capitalist hellscape montage. People made effective horror films over zoom, lockdown romantic-comedies flooded the market, and Steven Soderbergh made Kimi. Think about the “at-home” episodes of SNL, and their almost alien quality— their manic energy, ultra-niche, brink-of-disaster vibe— and the fact that people got weirdly emotional about Tom Hanks hosting and saying hi from his kitchen. Seth Meyers’ late-night show descended into a poorly lit, self-referential, absurdist document that somehow managed to air on network television. I watched virtual concerts and the Stephen Sondheim celebration online. Pandemic/lockdown-themed singles appeared in my Apple Music recommendations. There was Bo Burnham: Inside. Themes emerged— fear, boredom, loneliness, and a desperation for human connection.
I think it was fairly apparent early on, at least to culture writers and fans who have their nose in these things, that the pandemic lockdown era of art and media would eventually become an object of study. Such bizarre, specific artistic efforts were created, and seem suspended in time. A couple of years out from the lockdown era, I find a majority of that art rather… cringey. By the very nature of lockdown art, it’s all somewhat incestuous, a mirror looking into a mirror, seeing an eternity of reflections that create an illusion of depth. It’s an extremely narrow view of the effects of the pandemic, and one that is navel-gazing at a time when society needed community and altruism more than ever. Lockdown art is almost embarrassingly unaware of the delivery people, essential workers, and healthcare professionals that had to continue on. It’s unaware of the people who couldn’t afford to buy a new camera to fuel their isolation hobby, of the parents and caretakers whose worlds became small.
It’s 2022, and the covid-19 pandemic is far from over. We’ve just sort of had to stumble along, and I think we’ll all be processing it for years to come. There’s not a singular lesson to be learned; life is not a fable or morality play. Some, if not most, of the art created in lockdown will remain an anthropological fascination but won’t have a lasting effect on how society views the world or even on how we all create art after-the-fact. Bo Burnham became a one-man film studio for a year, but it’s highly unlikely he ever will again.
Perhaps that’s why, while in Paris last week, I found the image of printer-paper and felt-tip pens so compelling. In Paris’s Musee d’Art Moderne, there was a small exhibit called “Lockdown Drawings,” which featured a selection of drawings from Paris-based artist Xavier Veilhan. Veilhan’s career has primarily been one of sculpture and installation art— work that is large-scale, expensive, steeped in technology and deeply dependent on audience and perception. Essentially, Veilhan’s typical art is the opposite of pandemic-friendly. When the pandemic hit, and Veilhan had to observe Paris’s strict lockdown rules, he pared his artistic practice down. He had limited materials available to him: just some paper, felt-tip markers, a compass, and a ruler.
“Lockdown Drawings” consisted of drawings Veilhan created during this period. Each piece was made on the same size of paper, with household arts and craft supplies. The curation was extremely humble, with unfinished wooden frames and no plaques or labels, all of the art hanging chronologically. The art was presented without comment, just a brief explanation on what the project was.
The abstract pieces tell a story about a back-to-basics mindset, an experienced artist going back to a simplified daily process that had him re-examining line, shape, color, and pattern. The pieces show resilience, playfulness, and a growing enthusiasm for the process. Some pieces, when pared together, showed a development of ideas, or a particular infatuation with a color scheme. The story of the art is a story of patience, process, and humility.
Most of all, the art was accessible. These works were obviously done by someone with experience and skill— that was obvious in the composition of each image and the confidence in concept— but a drawing with some pens on printer paper is something anyone could achieve. You probably have these things sitting at your desk right now. Veilhan’s artistic journey during lockdown was one that anyone could have participated in, and consequently it felt deeply human. It was optimistic. Even with the pandemic raging outside, there was beauty to be found in our simplest, most human artistic instincts.
The past few years have been such an adventure, in both good and bad ways. I recently finished graduate school and so have been confronted with the question of “what now?” in ways that have been overwhelming and intimidating. I took out student loans. What now? I spent two years working full-time while in school full-time. What now? I poured my soul into writing. What now? And yet, at the same time, the pandemic has caused me to refocus on things that make me happy and fulfilled: my relationships, enjoying the world around me, and doing the tangible things that bring me joy. I could put everything into pursuing a career as a screenwriter, but that wouldn’t answer the question of “What now?” There could be another pandemic. That career could fall apart. What now? …Now I’m going to pet some dogs and gossip with my friends and cuddle with my boyfriend and make surrealist jokes with my siblings and eat baguettes with my parents. I’m going to pick up a piece of printer paper and pull out my pack of Crayola Crayons and make some art. At least, I’m going to try.