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.)

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.

What Kind of an Artist Are You?

Just for fun. (Someday soon we’ll get back to serious subjects around here.) What kind of an artist are you?

Are you a Gershwin or Mozart–a ham with a flare for performance? (Funny story about Gershwin. Groucho Marx was having a party. He didn’t invite Gershwin. Gershwin, to get back at him, crashed the party and took over the show, entertaining the guests at the piano. Groucho smiled. It’s exactly how he planned it.)

Are you a Beethoven or Van Gogh–tend to keep to yourself and perhaps a little moody? (Give the guys a break. One lost his hearing. The other lost his ear.)

Are you a Hemingway–always seeking adventure and living on the edge?

Are you a Whitman–idealist and city-lover?

Are you a Thoreau–like to break the rules and a country-lover?

Are you a Picasso or Pollock–tend to take advantage of the people around you and maybe drive them a little crazy?

Are you a Bach–love a good joke, a good cup of coffee, and a good Bible study (and a little something else, guessing by the fact that he had 20 children)?



Debriefing

I returned last night from the Transforming Culture symposium. It made me happy. Very, very happy.

Now begins the long process of processing. It was incredible. I wanted to pack up all the speakers and bring them home with me so I could chat with them over coffee and keep them in my writing space for when I need encouragement, inspiration, or a good kick in the butt.

In a way, I did.

I’d like to process all of this with you guys. It will take several posts, but what they had to say about art and theology affirmed, inspired, and challenged me. I want to share that with you.

For today, I’ll leave it with the two big impressions I left with:

  1. Contentment: I’m an artist, and I’m called to a specific work. I had a hard time thinking of it as called for a while, but I now believe that to be true. This is part of my identity, and that identity doesn’t ride on the rejection of my work. I’m an artist because that’s who I am, not because that’s what I produce. (Caveat: I will talk later about what it means to be an artist, and there are specific things surrounding this, including a pursuit of excellence. I do not mean this statement as an excuse to call myself an artist when I’m not creating art.) Being content gives me the freedom to both wholeheartedly pursue this calling (i.e. writing, especially fiction writing) and allows me to release things including my ideas of the future, jealousy of other writers, other jobs that I shouldn’t be doing.
  2. Pursuit of excellence: I’m always striving, and that’s okay. I should be caught up in the details, perfecting my work. It’s okay to call bad art (writing, singing, dancing, etc) bad art. And more than anything, more than wanting to be published, I want to make sure that my writing is not bad art. Bad art is less than Christian. It does not embrace what God has for us. It settles for less. This means I can’t rush things, as I’m prone to do. I have to take the time. I have to wait. It’s interesting to me that my mind’s been filled with the idea of anticipation in the past couple of weeks mainly through Easter and the hope of our future resurrection, but also in books such as Water for Elephants, which does an amazing job of building anticipation. I’m in that period–anticipating the recreation and resurrection of the world and anticipating how God’s going to shape my writing as I work every day.

There’s so much more to say, so much to pass on to you from these speakers, so much to decompress and weave into my life. Some of these ideas have to do with my art in the world (fiction writing), and this includes both the pursuit of excellence but also rethinking CBA v. ABA (not to say that I’ll arrive at a different conclusion, but I’ll rethink it all the same). Some of it has to do with my art within the church (music and playwrighting) and incorporating art into the worship service, into the church building, into the life of the church (specifically my local church).

In the meantime, I’ve begun updating my Incarnating Christ page with new resources I’ve discovered regarding art, writing, and social justice (namely art’s role in social justice). And, I need to catch up with email and blog comments. It was lovely having absolutely no access to the Internet for three days, but the fallout is painful.