Postures of an Artist, Part II

Over a month ago, I wrote what I intended to be part one of a two-part post on the postures of an artist.

Yes, "postures," as in the plural.

Except I waxed (whether eloquently or not, I’ll let you be the judge) on a single posture–contemplation. Then I continued waxing like the karate kid on contemplation. Then I was distracted by various subjects–books, photos, secret-revealing, camping, you name it.

No worries. Today I return to my initial (though belated) intention.

The tough thing about distinguishing the postures of art-making is that in a sense, I’m never not art-making. While I’m doing dishes, I’m thinking about the latest scene that’s been giving me trouble. If I’m watching TV or a movie, I’m considering how the writers handled character, plot, and dialogue. On a camping trip, I’m taking notes for possible stories or bits of dialogue (because I steal blatently, and I’m not afraid to admit it). My prayers are a form of art-making, a dialogue between God and me. Add to this that everything I do, everyone I meet influences my writing and music, how I write, the themes I expound, the characters I meet, the rhythm of my words.

In other words, "postures of art-making" would be a useless theme. You might as well say "postures of life." It’s the same with "postures of an artist," since every posture of life is a posture of an artist. (This is why I can’t sleep at night–my mind still works, creating bits of dialogue, dwelling on the shape of my manuscript.)

But by "postures of an artist," (or art-making) I mean those intentional postures that we choose in order to better our art, or perhaps the postures that define as artists, rather than financial planners or construction workers (although many a financial planner and construction worker has also been an artist).

Without further ado:

  1. Posture of learning: the artist is a constant learner of his craft. How can I better form this sentence? What more can I learn about structure from another artist? Beyond that, the artist pursues learning in many subjects beyond her own, whether a particular subject to address in the art itself or of philosophy and worldview and humanity and aesthetics, because art is caught up in these areas.
    For me, as a writer, specifically, this means constantly reading–reading within and outside of my genre, interspersed with reading on art and the craft of writing. Reading about subjects of interest and sometimes subjects I never thought I’d like. But it also means learning outside of my discipline. As I learn about performance art or sculpture or photography, this influences my writing. Art overlaps with art.
  2. Posture of observation: If art is caught up in beauty and humanity, joys and sufferings, then we must first observe these. We observe them in the small gestures, between grandmother and granddaughter, perhaps, or between lovers, or between bully and victim. We observe grand gestures between countries, people groups, neighborhoods. We observe the wilting of a flower and the expansion of a tea leaf. We observe the creaks and groans of a house, the way a crack travels on a worn-out sidewalk.
    Because of this posture more than others, I believe, I never stop working. I must have made a comment to a friend recently that made him realize that in some sense, I never stop working. "You need a break," he said, "or you’ll wear your creativity out." Nonsense. Creativity begets creativity, and while I need frequent breaks from crouching over my keyboard, because I’m primarily a thief (actually, I prefer the term "pirate"), the more I observe, the more my creative spidey-senses go crazy. Writer’s block forces me to step away from the laptop and into the world full of gestures, conversations, and the rush of life, all of which goes into my Nancy Drew notebook.

I’m sure I’ll think of more postures (at 1:36 tonight, or in the morning, rather, interspersed between the line I want to add about the dead bugs in the corners of my character’s room and the dialogue I want to remember that my character overhears), but for now, this is enough.

What postures do you consider necessary to your art-making?

Read part one of Postures of an Artist.

The Master's Artist: The Artist Prophet

In a follow-up post to my previous (and ever-popular) post on The Master’s Artist, The Artist Priest, this week, I wax (eloquently, no less) on The Artist Prophet.

A free sample:

Throughout history, artists have not only served as priests
but as prophets–voices in their respective cultures decrying the evils
of their societies. Our rich heritage includes artists such as Goya,
Charles Dickens, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Stravinsky, and Keith Green.
They have worked subversively sometimes. Other times, they’ve slapped
their patrons in the face.

Ah, heck. I’m in a giving mood. You can try the whole thing for free.

(Aka, click here to read the post in its entirety.)

The Master's Artist: The Artist Priest

Today at The Master’s Artist I consider how we as believers offer our art as a sacrament.

A taste:

We kneel at the altar, our hands cupped, palms up to receive the sacrament. The priest presses a wafer onto my fingers.

"The body of Christ, the bread of heaven," he says.

I lift the wafer to my tongue, crack it between my teeth.

A white-clad chalice bearer follows the priest. She dips the cup to my lips. "The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation."

The
wine rinses the bits of wafer from my mouth, washes down my throat.
With bowed head, I cross myself, lingering for a moment before
returning to my pew.

In this way, with a community of believers
(and, most likely, unbelievers), I experience the presence of God.
This, in essence, is what the sacraments are: the presence of God. In
turn, as a member of the Body of Christ, I am called to live
sacramentally so as to incarnate Christ’s presence in the world around
me.

Read the rest here.

The Master's Artist: To Publish or Perfect

I’m up today at The Master’s Artist considering the question of whether we should publish or perfect our work.

On the one hand, why would I want to put anything out there that is
less than my best? I have one opportunity to impress, and I don’t want
to waste it. One must dress for success. Plus, we all know this is the
answer the agents want to see. Case closed.

On the other hand, my work will never match the ideal I have in my head. The novel is
perfect. Until I translate it onto page. If I wait until perfection,
I’ll never publish. (Perhaps some of you have better luck with
attaining the unflawed and unblemished.)

On the other hand,
settling for mediocre art leaves a bad taste in my mouth (although that
could be last night’s garlic sauce). Art and excellence go together
like beans and rice. If choosing publishing over perfection means
settling (such a dirty word), I’ll have none of that, thank you very
much.

Read the rest here.

Postures of an Artist, Part I

"It is an appeal to Christians who aren’t artists to benefit from the contemplative life of the artist, to slow down, lower the volume, and experience what life and faith consist of below the surface. It is not a call to the life of an ascetic, one withdrawn from the life of the senses; the purpose of contemplation and reflection is to strengthen us for a productive life in society and culture."
- from Performing the Sacred: Theology and Theatre in Dialogue by Todd Eric Johnson

Six years ago, I walked across a stage, shook hands with deans and presidents, accepted a piece of paper that claimed I’d earned my Masters of Theology, and slipped my tassel from one side of the mortarboard to another. I said my goodbyes to friends off to save bodies and souls across the world, moved apartments, and began my highly lucrative and influential job as a receptionist in a surgeon’s office.

You’ve heard this story before. I’d given up a position with a church-planting team in Italy to see where this thing was headed with a certain man. (Spoiler alert: Certain Man became Husband, and I have never doubted nor regreted my decision.) I went from all-night exegeticals and all-day school and church work to a boring life. Suddenly, I had evenings free. I didn’t have to study at lunch. I didn’t have to multitask during my sleep.

In the United States, and in the evangelical camp of the United States, that meant I was wasting my life.

During this time, I learned the beauty of the contemplative life. I rediscovered my journal. On Saturday mornings, I filled my mug at the coffee house underneath my apartment, walked to the park across the DART tracks, and doodled. Or wrote meaningless sentences. Or prayed. Or sometimes just watched.

I have to work these days to maintain this pace of life, and I’m blessed to have a husband who supports this, even though it means I don’t make as much money as I might otherwise. Even though it means my house may not be spotless (I’ve made friends with the spiders). Even though it means sometimes I don’t have dinner ready until 8:30 or 9:00 at night.

Lately I’ve been considering the postures of an artist. People call me a free spirit, by which they mean corporate life makes me red (and I don’t mean Bolshevik). But this term doesn’t mean much to me because I depend on daily routine, daily gestures or postures. To many, my life is mundane. But it is only in this mundanity that I can create.

Mundanity requires discipline. It’s easier to fill my schedule with all these other good things. It feels selfish to say no. But trust me, you get used to it. Addicted to it. Because in that no is the time to contemplate. And contemplation is a necessary posture of an artistic life. Nay, contemplation, I’d venture to say, is a necessary posture of the Christian life.

Different stages in life demand different responses. There are times when we have to forego the time to contemplate for one reason or another. But too often, we succumb to filled calendars because this seems better to us. A full calendar means a productive life, importance, meaning. I’ve discovered, though, that a full calendar means lack of creativity.

Over half of the year in the liturgical calendar is devoted to ordinary days. We have times and stages for the celebrations and fullness of Advent, Christmas, Lent, Easter. But most of our days are meant to be spent between these times in the mundanity of life.

In that mundanity I find contemplation. And only through that contemplation can I be the artist I want to be.

The Master's Artist: Memorable Moments

I’m blogging today at The Master’s Artist.

A preview:

"Hold on! Let me get my camera!" She swished out of the water, her large gold hoop earrings glinting in the sun. The tourist, a complete stranger, waited at the top of a 35-foot drop. The teenaged girl grabbed her camera–not bothering to dry her hands–positioned, and focused.

"Okay," she said. "I’m ready. Go."

The tourist jumped off the cliff, straightened into a pencil before hitting the water.

You can read the rest here.

The Master's Artist: Sometimes I'm Lyrical

I’ve been honored with an invitation to blog regularly at The Master’s Artist.

As my friend (and now co-blogger) said, "What is this place coming to?"

Nevertheless, I will pop my head up on The Master’s Artist every other Tuesday, beginning today.

A snatch from my inaugural piece (unless you count my guest blog a few weeks ago, but since that was a trial run, I suppose we can still call this one the inaugural post):

In my college music composition study, I worked on a violin
unaccompanied sonata for an upcoming master class. For the first
movement, I took a five-note motif and stretched it, condensed it,
turned it upside-down and inside-out. I layered it in fugue and
counterpoint. I syncopated its rhythm with hemiola.

In other words, I made that sucker work.

For the second movement, from the same five-note motif, I created an idyllic, fairy-inspired melody.
Proud of my gut-wrenching, music-changing first movement, I showed the work to my professor.

“Nice
ideas in the first movement, but the second movement is where you
really shine.” He pointed his long, bony finger at me. (Okay, so it
wasn’t really bony, although it was long, but bony fingers make better
stories.) “In this lyricism, I begin to see you.”

Harsh words to take as a young composer. It got worse.

Read the rest here.

Update: Sorry the links were not previously working. They’re working now.

Something Small

Recently, I’ve been reading The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver. The book is about a writer. For part of his life, he worked for artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. In these relationships, Kingsolver explores some questions about art, including its purpose and function.

In one section, the protaganist, Harrison Shepherd, considers the difference between the artwork of his two employers. Diego’s murals "[command] men to rise from their knees and fight!" Frida’s, however, are "smaller . . . Something people would find dear" (p. 161). It’s Frida’s work, not Diego’s that inspire Harrison to want to write "something beautiful, that people would find very moving" (Ibid).

Side note: I doubt many people would consider Kahlo’s work "dear." But Harrison doesn’t speak about the surrealism of her work but the smallness and purpose of her work. She doesn’t paint political paintings or see her job as doing something big. She observes her life, her world, small as it is, and translates that to painting.

In another scene soon after that, Frida takes seriously the task of decorating a table for dinner. Harrison says about this event, "It’s a lot of work to use flowers as paints. By the time the party ends, they’ll be a mess of wilted petals. Stains on your white tablecloth that could have been prevented." Frida reacts: "Unnecessary stains and dead flowers! Soli, excuse me but what else do I have for making my marks on life, if not lo absurdo y lo fugar." Harrison supplies the definition to fugar (or attempts to) as "things that run away with time" (p. 169).

Later, Harrison and Frida have a conversation about art. Frida asks Harrison, who journals every day of his life as well as types away his novel, why he doesn’t consider himself a writer. He answers, "To be a writer, you need readers." She retorts that she is no painter, then. "Who ever looks at my dumb little pieces of shit?" (p. 197).

My point being: In today’s global world with its global problems, we think of our lives in global terms. How am I changing the world? How is my art changing the world? How can I have the largest impact, the most readers, the best marketing? J.D. Salinger said, "There are no writers anymore. Only book-selling louts and big mouths."

But in these passages, I found something freeing. I can create something small. I can focus on making something small and beautiful that might move only a few people. I don’t say that I wouldn’t like to have millions of readers who read my books and find something beautiful, moving in them, that I wouldn’t want half a nation to see my words and realize they’re not alone. I’m not even saying that we shouldn’t market our art.

But that’s not the point, is it? The point is "writing . . . with eye and ear and heart" (Adam Gopnik, "Postscript: J.D. Salinger," The New Yorker). As Andy Crouch says, we create unuseful things (as opposed to utilitarian things). And this is beautiful.



On Installations, Memoirs, and Reality TV

Recently I finished Unveiling by Suzanne Wolfe (an excellent read I highly recommend due to her poetic prose, complex characters, and willingness to enter into suffering and beauty). In it she comments that museums, with their metered environments, lose the contexts of churches and homes for art. This made me think about museum installations. Are they the artist’s desire to create context where none exists?

I suppose "no context" is impossible. How about sterile? Removed? Unfamiliar with the breathings of our daily lives?

***

Over the past several years, memoirs have invaded Barnes and Nobles. I recently read an article about this plethora of memoirs. The author (Daniel Mendelsohn) compared this to the phenomenon of reality TV. He remarked, "If you can watch a real lonely woman yearning after young hunks on a reality dating show, why bother with Emma Bovary?"*

In a global, transient, cyber world, are memoirs our attempts to grasp a lost context? The question, "Where are you from?" becomes more and more difficult to answer without giving an essay.

Mendelsohn also notes that this may stem from a misunderstanding of the type of truth presented by fiction, "’a truth’ about life," he says, "whereas memoirs and nonfiction accounts represent ‘the truth’ about specific things that have happened." While not wanting to dismiss all memoirs by any means, in a world where specifics shift faster than we change our shampoo bottles, perhaps we look for specifics rather than general truths in the books we read.

*quote from "But Enough About Me" in The New Yorker, Jan. 25, 2010, p. 73.

The Artist in the Sunday School Class

She arranged the six squares of construction paper–red, blue, and yellow on the top row, green, purple, and orange on the bottom. In a Modrian-esque way, she then selected smaller squares of tissue paper in colors that mimicked the construction paper blocks.

The other four-year-olds left the table, one by one, as if retreating
from the ark. They found legos and kitchen sets and toy cars.

She undid some of her work in order to glue it down, every decision made after contemplation.

After that came the streamers–not dumped or thrown, not amassed like a shimmering mountain as the other children had applied their goodies. Her silvery streamers, each with hints of different colors, she smoothed, twisted, and swirled just so.

"Do you want glitter?" I asked. (Actually, Kim, the teacher I assisted in the Sunday school class may have asked her this.)

She considered her piece. "No, thank you." Then she signed her name.

A masterpiece.