There is an idea of art. Or rather, the “art life.” That it is somehow both debauched and glamorous—and also infinitely more exciting than the “average life.” As though there must be some greater reason why any person would choose to live in a manner that so patently makes them a societal outcast…and, more accurately, a societal reject. But like those misguided enough to believe that sexuality is a “choice,” people don’t “choose” to be an artist, they’re simply born with something “of that bent” within them. And those who are true and pure to their art can no more deny that core of their being than any gay person can deny being gay (look how that worked out for J. Edgar Hoover). Even when artists find themselves in a horrific “day job,” they still keep their artistic inclinations alive, for it would be unthinkable to snuff them out—almost like ceasing to breathe.
For Lizzy (Michelle Williams), the protagonist of Kelly Reichardt’s latest movie, Showing Up, that’s unequivocally true. Particularly as she juggles the petty dramas of the arts college (which feels more like a commune) where she works as an admin with her own sculpting obligations. And yes, they are obligations. Not just to herself, but to the show she’s promised to put on at one of the many local art galleries. For, obviously, the stage where Reichardt sets the film is in Portland—world capital of everyone assuming what they do is art.
Having previously collaborated on Wendy and Lucy, Meek’s Cutoff and Certain Women, Showing Up is technically on the “lighter side” of Reichardt and Williams’ work thus far together. And yet, it’s mostly all bleak as Lizzy contends with (admittedly First World) problems like not having hot water, watching her tacit rival and neighbor/landlord, Jo (Hong Chau), lap up accolades for her art and, then, suddenly getting saddled with caring for a pigeon that Lizzy herself threw over her balcony for dead after her cat, Ricky, almost did the job himself. And, speaking of her cat, even he proves to be a constant black hole of need and time consumption that takes away from her ability to work on her sculptures in a concentrated block. For Ricky insists on being fed now, his incessant meowing forcing her to go out and buy a new bag of food right when he demands his meal. Just so he’ll shut up.
One would think that Ricky’s presence in her house might at least keep Jo, who rescues the bird without knowing Lizzy was the one who tossed it out on its ass to “die somewhere else,” from asking her to watch over it while she goes to finish setting up for an art show. But no, Jo tells Lizzy she can keep the bird with her in the studio while Ricky’s upstairs. When Lizzy tries to explain that the bird is an unnecessary burden and distraction, she adds, to emphasize the importance of what she’s doing, “I took today off to work.” And art is work. Make no mistake about that. Jo shrugs, “Ah, this guy’s no trouble.” For everybody else around Lizzy gets to decide what is and isn’t “trouble” to her little “side hobby.” This being what all art is considered when it doesn’t garner one fame and money.
Even Lizzy’s mother (or rather, especially her mother), Jean (Maryann Plunkett), doesn’t take what her daughter does too seriously. Their overtly tense relationship is further compounded by the fact that Jean happens to be Lizzy’s boss at the college. And after reminding her of her meeting with the dean, Lizzy shyly mentions, “I was wondering if it was okay if I might take tomorrow off work. I was thinking I might do that.” When Jean doesn’t react or respond, Lizzy continues, “I have a lot of work. For the show.” Almost as though wanting her mother to give her validation in some kind of way for taking her “hobby” seriously enough to devote a full day of (unpaid) work to it. But her mother remains engrossed in whatever banal computer task she’s performing to the point where Lizzy has to nudge, “So is that okay? If I don’t come in.” Jean replies with a slight tone of irritation, “Lizzy, if you’re taking a personal day, you’re taking a personal day.” Because art, in the end, is always viewed as “personal,” not “professional.” Never mind that it might be the very lifeforce that keeps a person going. Even when it feels as though no one actually supports their so-called pipe dream. But the thing is, it’s not a “dream” to be an artist. If you’re doing the work every day, it’s very much a reality, regardless of whether or not “something bigger” might come along as “reward” for one’s efforts. Those who do not get famous, but instead, simply keep going are fundamentally the most devoted and true artists of all (see also: Vincent Van Gogh, Franz Kafka and Vivian Maier in their lifetimes).
Lizzy seems “doomed” to remain in that category as Reichardt lets her camera’s eye rest for long stretches on the sculptor at work. Meticulously fashioning her clay in silent isolation. For Showing Up is a movie as much about the artist’s “process” as it is a movie about the inherent loneliness of what it means to be an artist. Sure, there are the occasional get-togethers and “after-parties” in honor of a show well-received, but, by and large, most art mediums rely on the extensive solitude required for creation. Unfortunately for Lizzy, her attempts at solitude are interrupted by her anxieties both for her father, Bill (Judd Hirsch, who also appeared with Williams in The Fabelmans), and her mentally unstable brother, Sean (John Magaro). As for her first concern, Bill has let two freeloading “friends,” Lee (Matt Malloy) and Dorothy (Amanda Plummer), stay over at his house, prompting her to go check in on him and see if he’s okay.
Out in his storage/pottery shed, where the two talk in private, Bill insists he enjoys the company. As Lizzy holds one of the pots her father made in her hands, she casually suggests that he should make “more like this.” He responds, “I’m enjoying my retirement.” For him, apparently, art was considered “real” work because it was paid. Besides, as Bill puts it, “My days are full. I get up, do a little of this, a little of that and before you know it, it’s time to watch TV again.” Lizzy ripostes, “That sounds terrible.” But maybe part of why it sounds so terrible to her is because the drudgery of it hits too close to home for her own “art life.” Far from “chic” or “exciting,” most of her moments are spent in stillness and devout concentration. One could easily swap out the sculpture she stares at all night for a TV.
Indeed, like watching TV, there is much about creating art that necessitates a kind of “passivity” that most people don’t have the patience for. Yes, one is “engaged” in what they’re doing, but, in essence, they’re being guided by some unseen hand (“The Muse,” if you’d like) as they let the inspiration glaze them over like one of Lizzy sculptures in the kiln. Ah, and speaking of the kiln, not only is Lizzy subject to the insensitivities of those who treat her art like nothing that should take precedence, but there are also those who carelessly “fire” her work. Namely, Eric (André Benjamin, also performing the flute backing soundtrack), who shrugs off his error in placing her final, pièce de résistance of a sculpture too close to the side of the kiln. Therefore, he explains its burnt appearance to her as follows: “Must’ve been burning hot on one side.” Looking at her creation in horror, Eric continues to make things worse by saying, “It’s a little funky, but I don’t mind imperfections. In fact, I like them. I prefer it.” As though the art is about his preference, not the artist’s. Alas, left with no other option but to accept it (as there’s not enough time for a “redo” before the show), Lizzy then goes to her brother’s house again to see if he’s coming across as any less unhinged.
To her dismay, she finds him in the backyard inexplicably digging a hole. When she asks him what he’s doing, he returns, “I’m making a piece. A major piece.” Everyone wants to be a Respected Artist, after all. And Lizzy is the most blatantly sick of seeing everyone else around her try to pass themselves off as somehow more “serious” than her. Worst of all, her mother attempts to position Sean’s mental health issues as a sign of his superior artistic brilliance. Of how he “was always incredibly creative and, uh, some of the things he’s done, just, wow.” Sitting there trying not to explode, Lizzy hits back, “A lot of people are creative.” And she’s not wrong. But tragically, and especially in America, being creative has been turned into yet another competitive, commodifiable source. This causing numerous unnecessary animosities and contentions when, in a world with its priorities straight, everyone with the artistic inclination would be nurtured and embraced, as opposed to being treated like “a race” to “weed out.” Henry Miller presented such an idea about subsidizing all artistic endeavors, regardless of “goodness” or “badness,” in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare. It was also in the same book that Miller rightly assessed, “America is no place for an artist: to be an artist is to be a moral leper, an economic misfit, a social liability. A corn-fed hog enjoys a better life than a creative writer, painter or musician. To be a rabbit is better still.”
For Lizzy, to be someone who could just resign herself to “being an admin” might be better still. Or at least help to reduce her overarching sense of anxiety (which is ironic, considering that art is supposed to be “therapeutic”). And yet, even if her “art life” is not “glamorous”—rife with coke-addled binges and alcoholic rampages (as past artists have led us to believe)—there is still, inevitably, inspiration in the mundane. Something Lizzy comes to realize about her life and her exhibit as the film draws to its inconclusive conclusion.
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