to the dance of life
A few weeks ago, I had the privilege of listening to Sara Groves perform at a small venue for Art House Dallas. But more than her music, her words of her journey as an artist encouraged me.
"I (re)tell you this story that Sara shared at the intimate concert,
surrounded by evidences of God’s presence in the people and stained
glass and hot apple cider, because I recognized this truth: it’s okay to
be a red Walmart writer, and it’s okay to be a blue Mom and Pop writer."
Today’s post at The Master’s Artist reflects on my recent completion of my rough draft and my intention and work on the revisions.
"Art is discovery. In the rough draft, I work through the characters’
emotions (as well as my own). I answer the questions: How does my
character feel about and react to all these things? How do I feel about
these ideas? In the rough draft, I discover meanings and muck through
what it means to be human. But if I stop there, my work stays in the
realm of self-expression, of emotionalism, and possibly,
horror-of-horrors, sentimentalism. I might even attempt to manipulate
or stimulate the observer so that she feels the same way I do about all
this mess."
"Art, whether Christian or not, can’t properly begin with a message and then seek for a vehicle. Its roots lie, rather, in the single story or metaphor or configuration of sound or shape which requires attention and development from the artist. In the process of that development, we find meanings we had not suspected, but if we try to begin with the meanings, they will shrink to the scale of what we already understand; whereas creative activity opens up what we did not understand and perhaps will not fully understand even when the actual work of creation is done. That is why the artist is never the sole or even the best judge of the work, which rightly and properly escapes into the interpretative field of its public."
- Rowan Williams
What does it mean that I’m an artist? Does–and how so, then–does my art define me? And if it defines me, what framework do I use when I work in obscurity and when I work in fame?
A comment Sandra McCracken made at a recent Art House Dallas lunch got me thinking about this very thing. So, of course, I blogged about it.
"Our society, still in the haze of Romantic fallout, views artists as
"other-than," as specially inspired, bohemian, eccentric. Often, we
gladly take up this mantle. And often, aspects may fit. We may have
different schedules than, say, a lawyer. We don’t mind using the
descriptor "eccentric" as an excuse to wear or do what we want.
But in all honestly, this mantle also burdens our spirituality.
Happily defined by our art, it engulfs us so that our identity, rather
than in Christ (a common identity to all believers), becomes in art.
Our hope, our persona, our self-presentation, even our view of our
meaning in the world is caught up by the success of our art. More than
this, we put ourselves into our work. Tread lightly, that’s me on the
page."
Read the rest at The Master’s Artist: Feast or Fallow.
This past weekend, my husband and I went to a local production of Our Town by Thornton Wilder. It was the second time I’ve seen it. The first was in sixth grade. One line from that sixth-grade production stuck with me all these years, and it echoed this weekend.
So I blogged about it.
A taste:
The lights dimmed to nothingness on the
cemetery and audience. A tear rested on the shelf of skin below my eye,
and the Stage Manager’s words resonated in my head: "Saints and poets,
maybe. They do some."
***
It
was my first trip to the local high school. Oh, how grown up we were!
In a group, we walked through the locker-lined halls. Someday we’d have
lockers like these. We’d pause here between classes, flirting,
laughing, passing notes. Our teacher ushered us into the all-purpose
room serving as a theater for the week.
We had come to watch the high school drama team’s dress rehearsal of
Our Town by Thornton Wilder. The official production began that night.
We got a sneak preview.
Captivated by the ordinary life portrayed on stage, I fell in love. I was in sixth grade, and that love has never waned.
Read the rest of "Saints and Poets."
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.
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.
I broke out the ole Kierkegaard yesterday (sometimes you need a little Kierkegaard to get your day going). In Either/Or, A Fragment of Life, Kierkegaard portrays two philosophers, a brash, witty, but disenchanted youth and his older, wiser mentor. The witty-but-disenchanted youth writes:
What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.
He goes on to talk about the people who hear only the beauty without recognizing the deeper anguish. They clap their hands and say, "More! More! Entertain me!"
In the older man’s reply, he has much to correct in the youth’s shortsightedness and romanticism, but he affirms the youth’s ideas about the poet. The poet is working through despair, the older man says. He lives in between the finite and the infinite.
The poet sees the ideals, but he must run away from the world in order to delight in them . . . [he] cannot calmly go his way unmoved by the caricature that appears around him . . . For this reason the poet’s life is often the object of a shabby pity on the part of people who think they have their own lives safe and sound because they have remained in the finite.
Our art works out the struggles of the "already/not yet." Thus, it is a spiritual work. I mentioned in my post on Monday about some stresses in the Goodman house. One of them is my WIP. This novel toys with my worst fears. It dances on would-be regrets. It pulls like taffy my ideas of family, community, and individuality. I suppose this explains my penchant for procrastination. Thank God for spring and all its planting demands! (On the plus side, our house has never been so clean.)
I purse my lips, forming an embouchure in hopes that what whistles through is beautiful music, but the impetus is the doubt and despair I daily work through, clinging to the hope of the resurrection but with an eye toward the suffering of the world.
Barbara Nicolosi once talked about the eyes of the artist. The average man thinks the artist crazy. After all, the artist is gesturing wildly, eyes wide, in warning to the average man. But the average man doesn’t see the snake wrapped around him. The artist does.
I do not presume to believe the artist is any greater or better than the average man. If art is a spiritual task, I’m not sure I can say that it is any better than any other spiritual task, or working out of the "already/not yet" of God’s kingdom. Perhaps this says more about the artist’s disposition, his position of constant observer, his willingness to turn these observations in every angle Picasso-like, to anguish over the pain and suffering of the world as Jesus anguished over it, and his bravery to purse his lips and bring forth somethig beautiful.
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.
Josh Havens (of The Afters) and I continue our conversation. In this episode, we talk about the creative process.
Yes, the dog barks on (perhaps it’s poetic). And no, now that it’s fully night, you can’t see us. I’m looking into getting the audio-only version. I know it’s out there somewhere.
Ah-ha. I’m starting to get somewhere. But apparently, blip.tv can’t handle having both available on the same blog. Since it’s dark, let’s try the audio-only (mp3) version today, shall we?
Also, if you right-click on the "Click to Play" link, you can "Save link as" a file on your computer. That way, you can download it on your iPod. I know you want to take me everywhere you go, don’t you?
I tell tales--tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones. Some call it compulsive lying. I call it writing.
