Smitten with writers

‘What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.’
J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield

Having just finished The Observations, an absorbing read, tea time with the author isn’t on my wish list. Jane Harris is probably a perfectly endearing friend to her inner circle, but she’s already shared a generous swath of herself in this book. That’s enough for me.

When I was a kid, William F. Buckley Jr. dropped by our living room once a week, slouched himself into a low chair with a pad of notes propped on his boney knee, and proceeded to ply his trade with erudite precision. I distinctly recall thinking, ‘I wish I knew enough about the world to be his sparring partner.’ It looked like fun. It wasn’t his ideology that lured me; it was the way he unfurled the life of the mind with his langourous repartee. Pal around with old Bill off the air? No thanks!

My reclusive genes probably guide my steps away from befriending talented greats. A checklist involving Howard Gardner’s multiple intelligences reveals (no surprise) that I’m rich in the intra-personal style of learning, happily lost in the warm arms of solitude and reflection. From this comes a certain respect for artist anonymity. The likes of Salinger and Dylan would never find me skulking around their hedges, hoping for a chat on the front stoop.

My own friends and kin, even the gregarious ones, don’t tend to be companions of my artist life either. Something about the intimate honesty of a work of fiction, which most songs are, seems to incite a strong urge in said dear ones to pretty much ignore what I rather love to do most.

A gathering of songwriters I once lead gradually morphed away from, ‘What’s the state of your artist soul?’ to, ‘How’s the family? Any gigs coming up?’ The group did hone in on lyrics and melody now and then, reminding us all we were not alone in our singular passions.

Salinger’s Caulfield fantasized about getting to know his favorite authors. Salinger the author was known to shun contact with his fans. In reality, creation’s a high lonely road. We best befriend the work itself as most of those who know us well we’ll never chance to meet.

Photo credit Crime Magazine

Planet, people and profit

Sometimes an image calls out for words. For a sculptor, a painter, a photographer, it could be the other way around.

Following the filigree of Facebook, fingers on keys like soles on a gallery floor, I come to this photo and catch myself longing. The caption offers no clues about sculptor or setting, only this:

WELCOME TO 2010

THE BEST AWAITS YOU

In caps, a declaration, mirroring the letters of the figure huddled, or healing -  or just high above the fray? The little people look up, or down, in open, yearning gestures. No one in a rush to turn away. The light, the inconceivable letters promise a perspective on the future unavailable to readers of the daily news. Good things shall prevail.

Did you notice the figure's hand? There isn't one. It stops just short of tiny, slender people, lightly burdened by the fashion of the day. The sculpture's light endows them with something you nor I could fathom on our own. Call it hope. Name it humility or candor. Disbelieve their power to persuade. Yet, here they are, handling the future with aplomb.

Why does it sound naive to say the little people, we, are the purveyors of light? Because the powerful have grabbed our expectations, cynicism loves company, sophistication struts around in bling?

Time to listen to a woman like Emily Pilloton talk about the 'triple bottom line' - planet, people and profit.

WELCOME TO 2010. THE BEST AWAITS YOU.

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Emily Pilloton
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Photo credit Christine Balland

Reagan regalia

Before I hit delete concerning
yet another email from my dad to us,
his ever loving kids,
I wonder this.

Why did pater send it?

We’ve seen, we’ve heard
the trickle down nostalgia
for the good ol’ days
with Reagan at the wheel.

Dad knows how I feel.

His ruly children nod and smile --
the rest of us have turned our nodding sideways,
our smiles turned upside down
by homeless millions leaving town.

Is he hoping for some latter day conversion?

Wasn’t there ballooning debt
and unrestrained expenditure on war
in days of yore with Reagan king?
But that was war!
And now, they say, is socialist upending to
the status of our quo
by a savior who is secretly
our foe.

Religion clouds the vision, this is true.

The banks and lobby lords
who hold the purses
masquerade as kindly nurses
on the battlefield
attending to our wounds.
Take heed before you swoon
for any mortal with a mortuary tune.

The tired, the poor, the yearning to be free
are on the street,
our recollections incomplete.

Bojangles on my feet, I hit delete.

Photo credit White House Photographic Office

Streams of fire

Profound ideas arise out of chaos. Madness. Risk.

Although - the mad madame makes no choice, does she - to be mad, or sane?  If she’s sane enough to choose, she’s not mad enough to fly.  Sanity will lead her to lists, and lists to obscurity.

Vincent Van Gogh had brother Theo in Paris to send him money and promote his art.  We revere the tormented painter and mention his brother in passing. But who’s the more troubled, the obsessed genius or the dutiful keeper of lists? Who sacrifices more for art that bejewels the world? And is it even possible for one artist to hold two allegiances in her belly, the bold invention, the bland accounting?

‘Vincent wasn’t only an inspired, mad artist; he was a great painter desperately trying to remain sane. He saw the world with a rare intensity which gave great power to his work.  And it was while looking and painting that he knew the greatest pleasure of which his tormented nature was capable.
Martin Gayford, The Yellow House: Nine Turbulent Weeks in Arles

 Poor, tormented Vincent. I see his work and weep hot orbs of gratitude.  If it hadn’t been for Theo, not a drop of noble Vincent would remain. 

Painting by Vincent Van Gogh, The Sower

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The sower

‘The sower broadcasting his seed was an image that had been with him almost since he had become an artist. It stood for a painter - or an evangelist - sowing the seed of beauty and truth.’
Matin Gayford, The Yellow House: Nine Turbulent Weeks in Arles

If I were a sower who saw her art as evangelism, her seeds indispensable to the good earth’s survival, my priorities would change.

Perusing my to-do list, which, out of curiosity, I’ve segmented into beneficiaries, fully two thirds of planned tasks benefit others and/or me. Family, friends and my teaching cohorts fall within this category. Earth, by which I mean the planet in toto, is assigned the remainder. This category holds my art and, largely because the other list is both large and short-term rewarding, is given short shrift.

Vincent Van Gogh, sometimes businessman and arts-community organizer, nevertheless prioritized his painting. Even his persistent melancholy failed to distract him from his call. Look at one of his sunflowers and know he chose wisely.

When I leave this earth, some imprint of my time here will stay.  Intuitively, I feel posterity’s rush when I compose, practice, record or perform music. Oddly perhaps, it’s also evident as I muse on art and culture here with you. It may be impossible to measure the scale or quality of my contribution to earth’s longevity.

For now, it makes sense to remember the sunflower seeds of a man named Vincent.

Painting by Vincent Van Gogh, The Sower

Borderlands

Our culture is about success, ‘Rich & Famous’ our mantra. No matter how badly we screw up, a strong tenet of Western Civilization assures us ‘they’ will suddenly adore us (and regret ignoring our fledgling efforts) once they see we’ve succeeded (ie. we are rich & famous, yes!).

Counter culture rejects all that, celebrating communal values and humble anonymity.  We’re not supposed to hear of counter culture heros until they sell out, ie. get rich, famous, or both.  The counter culture ideal of success is to be wildly productive, ingeniously inventive and ambition free while maintaining a seductive cool.

Bloggers punt indie bands mentioned by Rolling Stone off the ‘it’ list because they are now eligible for celebrity and its incumbent wealth (do the wee bands care?). To get around this, an unknown art-savant can be groomed by the well connected patron saint (think O’Keefe-Stieglitz, Smith-Mapplethorpe, Dylan-Grossman) who swings wide the pearly gates pour l’artiste anonym. It’s a way to keep your street creds while joining Scrooge McDuck in his money bin.

Then there are the outliers revered by the masses for their creative (as well as lucrative) success:

'In this book I'm interested in people who are outliers—in men and women who, for one reason or another, are so accomplished and so extraordinary and so outside of ordinary experience that they are as puzzling to the rest of us as a cold day in August.'
Malcolm Gladwell

Film editor Walter Murch compares the collective nature of creativity in old world art forms and new, from the Sistine Chapel (starring outlier Michelangelo) to modern cinema.

‘Fresco painting was an expensive effort of many people and various interlocking technologies, overseen by the artist, who took responsibility for the final product... Every person who works on a film brings his or her own perspective to bear on the subject.  And if these perspectives are properly orchestrated by the director, the result will be a multi-faceted and yet integrated complexity that will have the greatest chance of catching and sustaining the interest of the audience, which is itself a multi-faceted entity in search of integration.’
Walter Murch, In the Blink of an Eye

Caldwell devotes a book to outliers and our notions of success.

'My wish with Outliers is that it makes us understand how much of a group project success is. When outliers become outliers it is not just because of their own efforts. It's because of the contributions of lots of different people and lots of different circumstances— and that means that we, as a society, have more control about who succeeds—and how many of us succeed—than we think. That's an amazingly hopeful and uplifting idea.'
Malcolm Gladwell

Outliers seems like a book worth exploring. It’s on my list for 2010. In the meantime, I wish you creative sagacity.  Work your fertile borderlands one row at a time, high-fiving the neighbors who ground and surround you. 

Photo credit James, Scotland England border