Artist candor

‘We have an anti-semitic president.’

Not the kind of thing my sister and I expect to hear the cardiologist say as he listens to our dad’s heart.

My sister’s Israeli, occasioning the doc’s statements of certitude on Arab religion (violent), universities (substandard) and government (violent and substandard).  Oddly, my Jewish sister is left to defend Islamic beliefs subverted by unscrupulous leaders.  The Gentile physician ignores her completely.  The middle east is defibrillating; Koranic teaching is the culprit.  Case closed.

Somehow I’d expect a more nuanced approach to political science from an educated man.  Which only shows my unsubstantiated bias toward the belief set of academia.  As though more intellectual tools and exposure equals broadmindedness and curiosity.  Surely medical science refines itself by embracing more, not less, rational evidence.

A friend of mine circulates ernest emails pitting wise conservatives against pompous liberals in couplets of rectitude:

If a conservative sees a foreign threat, he thinks about how to defeat his enemy.
A liberal wonders how to surrender gracefully and still look good.

I shake my head as I hit delete, thinking that as long as there are voters who practice black and white thinking, we’ll have politicians who pander to them.  This, the unctuous underbelly of democracy, encourages gladhanders to exploit the us-them battleground.

It sometimes feels like hopelessness incarnate.

Enter, artist.  Ply your nuance.  Encourage doubt.  Eschew the easy answers and web-ready glib gloss besmirching your and my and everybody's lips.  As one artist philosopher of the day warns,

The end of the world came and went while you were on Facebook.
Dan Piraro, Bizarro

While you were on Limbaugh, Colbert, CNN, Fox, Hannity and Dowd, clouds of intelligent uncertainty passed you by.  Art is where we explore certitude with a double edged sward.  Slice question marks into the self-righteousness belly of the beast.  Generate beauty, lots of beauty, to remind us all of our capacity for love.

Hear the remonstrations of the muse:  ‘Paint me.  Make me real.’

Photo John T. Bledsoe, Library of Congress