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I read this article as well, and appreciated (from my liberal, feminist viewpoint) Gopnik's pointing out that people who produce works society values are often exempt from the standards that I believe we should demand of all (although I may not agree with the standards in this case - the requirement that people marry, be monogamous, and raise children, for example).
Your commentary is thought-provoking; I had always defined an artist, internally, as someone who felt an undeniable compulsion to say something, in a particular way - the question of audience didn't enter into my definition. But as I review the artists that have been most meaningful in my life, many of them are authors, who are writing with a purpose and an intent to challenge the minds of their readers. Certainly, there are no guarantees - the artist creates her audience just as an audience member may create his artist, and in each case, the imaginative creation may have little to do with reality. But I appreciate this reminder that art is not just one-sided, that it often is also a conversation and an interaction.
The Life and Times of Wyatt Earp
I'll tell you a story a real true life story
A tale of the Western frontier.
The West, it was lawless,
but one man was flawless
and his is the story you'll hear.
Wyatt Earp, Wyatt Earp,
Brave courageous and bold.
Long live his fame and long live his glory
and long may his story be told.
Well he cleaned up the country
The old wild west country
He made law and order prevail.
And none can deny it
The legend of Wyatt
Forever will live on the trail.
Wyatt Earp, Wyatt Earp,
Brave courageous and bold.
Long live his fame and long live his glory
and long may his story be told
-- The Life and Times of Wyatt Earp, Lyrics by Harold Adamson, Music by Harry Warren. Performed by the Ken Darby Singers and Johnny Western.
I know a few of those who are companions of your artist life, your work and music. Your album, Monet's Orbit, is full of amazing poetry and sublime music, and I consider myself honored to have been a companion in that masterpiece.
Re: Salinger, I just read that the Morgan Library in New York City has eleven letters he wrote to one of his closest literary friends, and they will be put on exhibit there very soon.
I'm so glad Vincent (as he's referred to always in The Yellow House) was a prolific writer of letters, just for the small insight into his mind. But, as you say, it is the pictures that speak for him.
Your stun gun metaphor reminds me of how Alec Baldwin talks about his first exposure to classical music (in a video here).
Thanks for joining the conversation, Mark.
I was stationed in W. Germany '72-'75 while serving in the U.S.A.F. I visited the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, http://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/vgm/index.jsp. I didn't know anything about art then and this was as good a place as any to start learning. Stun guns had not been invented yet but I sort of felt like I had been hit by one. No matter how high the print quality of Van Gogh books, calendars, posters, etc., it is impossible to effectively reproduce the broad and thick brush strokes. The other thing that struck me was that the paint looks like it is still wet. He was a true genius.
I for one would sorely miss his work, especially after 'spending quality time' (a quite mad quality, at times) with him and Gauguin in the above mentioned pages over the past weeks. I don't doubt there is art produced through balance. But I often wonder how much richer and more imaginative creations might emerge with the focus, intensity and freedom of the wild spirits.
Vincent knew he had to calm his mental anguish enough to function. What strikes me is how much those of us drenched in real world responsibility calm so much mental anguish out of ourselves, that we hunger for inspiration. Vincent didn't often lack for inspiration, or so it seems.
Is it possible to "hold two allegiances, ...bold invention, the bland accounting"? I think it is possible, but only by a very disciplined person.
A few examples of artists in various genres and fields that leap into mind are William Shakespeare (playwrite and theater owner), William Carlos Williams (poet and successful pediatrician and gp), Jim Croce (songwriter and truck driver), and Andy Warhol (highly valued commercial artist, fine artist, and art entrepreneur).
Then there are the millions of Americans and other artists throughout the world who persevere at their "outside" art while holding down jobs and life situations that occupy much of their attention. Their work may not be displayed today in the MoMA or mentioned in the pages of the New York Times, but some of it is regularly purchased by people with an eye for beauty at art fairs and in unsung galleries in the less trendy cities and towns, as well as being summarily swiped free (in the case of songs) on the internet.
It is true that any occupation that requires attention 24/7 (law or accounting firm, running a household with growing children, an entrepreneurial business) usually precludes the kind of time and attention needed to nurture art.
It is also true that there are many artists like Vincent Van Gogh, Franz Kafka, Hank Williams, and thousands of others who battled depression, addictions and sundry mental illnesses while they created great works which we recognize today. Most of us even know a few artists like this in our own neighborhoods or cities -- it will only be by chance society at large will recognize their creations.
One of my art teachers once emphasized to us how important family support is to a young artist. Another artist concluded (wrongly, I think, although I know where he was coming from) that it impossible to both be an artist and try to live a typical American middle class existence, with family, household, and social responsibilities.
We should be grateful that Vincent had his insightful and loyal brother Theo to turn to for support. What would it be like to live in a world without his work? Would we feel the void?
This is a wonderful essay, Susan. I'm also reading The Yellow House, and I am understanding Van Gogh much more deeply now. And I know why Don McClean wrote in his song, "I could have told you Vincent, no one could ever be as beautiful as you." I also liked your small phrase "the planet in toto" -- it made me think of Oz and Middle Earth at the same time. Your prose is excellent.
Ah yes... my second calling is glinting at the lens for sure!
I've thought of you, Shahin, when reading Walter Murch's thoughts on editing. Is his book a standard film school read?
As for the cuppa, this works for me, especially combined with pen and paper.
Susan
This is truly creepy especially the glint in your eye. I LOVE IT!!
I love your site and also the relationship comments are wonderful. There is so much in simplicity. What works for me is someone making me a cuppa.
Happy New Year to you and all who read this page!
Shahin
Thanks for this insightful post, Susan. Nice picture of Our Lady too (thanks, Mr. Stieglitz, even if you never understood why she had to go out west like that). We so often think of our mothers, don't we, long after they are gone. Your concluding sentences move me to tears. Happy New Year to you, Susan.
They surely can! The poem really caught my imagination - I spend a lot of time thinking about women, and body image and cultural pressures, and those items, so this kind of thing always sets me off at a run. :)
But I imagined having a conversation with my own, not-conventionally-lovely bits - the wrinkle, the grey hair, the love handle, the scars. And I found that what I wanted to say to them all was: "I love you guys! I earned you! Some of you were very hard won, after pain and suffering, weariness and struggle. Some of you were prizes, like you, laugh lines, gained after years and years of smiles and laughter and love. But I am proud of each and every one of you!"
That was a fun conversation to have.
I'm gonna try for a Botox girl
She's been livin in her Wintour world
As long as anyone with hot blood can
And would she want to know a natural man
That's what I am
(segue to ...)
Don't go freezing trying to please me
Don't change the color of your hair
You could not be any better
I love you just the way you are.
A few years back I was watching a Japanese storyteller engage a packed grade school audience with wonderful stories, after which he asked if there were any questions. ‘How old are you?’ a little girl asked. Adults in the room chuckled nervously, waiting for the teller to dodge the question. Instead, he said, ‘I’m so glad you asked me that! In my culture, the older we grow, the more we are revered for our wisdom and experience. I will be 52 this year and look forward to growing older and older!’
What a breath of fresh air - his and your response to aging. The poem grew out of doodling with words on a day of relaxation after all the holiday exertions, letting the mind imagine a conversation between the botoxer and her forsaken emotions.
Unencumbered faces can get so interesting with time!
Somehow, this doesn't sound like an expression of what is going on with Susan Weber to me!
But the clever poem that reminds us that a very strong focus on our outward appearance may mask our concerns with what is going on deep in our hearts!
It also reminds me of a common exchange I have with people regarding birthdays - I had my thirtieth this year. When I imparted this news to those who asked about it, there were invariably shrieks of dismay, and offers of consolation. I was always surprised at these things, and would tell them so - to me, my life gets better and richer every year, and I am always so very glad to BE here for another year, and to enjoy the people I love, that I am delighted to celebrate each birthday - and even to see those lines on my skin that mark their passing. I love getting older - and happier!
You leave me on the edge of a cliff -- I want to hear about your Aegean adventures, your daydreams on the wine-dark sea.
Susan, I really like your writing style, for example, this sentence in particular, in which you characterize (I presume,) your nieces -- this is very vivid:
"Thrusting shears into the hands of nymphs who cut their own and each other's hair at the slightest provocation, I was reborn."
Hair seems to be such an important piece of identity for many women (something marketers dwell on); we associate it with something important about being female, and many women have strong opinions about the hair on their bodies as well as their heads - Eve Ensler gives us a piece in The Vagina Monologues; and plenty of women with thinning hair, due to medical treatments or otherwise, talk about grappling with the issue. It's so interesting to me that this is something so important to many of us - especially because men have the same ability to grow hair as women do - and I'm always curious about what it means to women.
In Asia, many women who grow older cut and curl their hair - poorer nutrition growing up makes their hair fall out as they age, and darker hair shows up patchiness easier. One topic of conversation among Korean women, when I lived there, was whether and when they would cut their hair short - it's interesting to see a similar idea across the ocean. If we associate shorter hair with being less female - what does that mean about how we think about aging? An interesting idea. . . .
The "Cute" Award (for the picture of children dancing) goes to Photographer Hans Lachmann for taking it, and to you, Susan, for posting it.
The referendum seems to reflect fear of potential terrorism and a firm stand by Swiss voters to make Switzerland less welcoming to Muslims. The posters and advertisements by the Swiss Peoples Party remind me, sadly, of anti-Jewish posters and stereotypes prevalent in 19th and early twentieth century Europe. Like Jews, Muslims are a very small percentage of the population, but they provide a convenient scapegoat-target for certain groups with a political agenda, especially in the wake of terrorist incidents of the past decade.
As to artists, I am one, and I know that as the SS marched into Vienna, Amsterdam and Paris there were some who resisted, and others who enthusiastically collaborated with them. Most of us did nothing, being fearful and protective of our own lives and our families.
Once again, the beast is out of the cage and on the prowl.
In the concert I blogged about previously, I realized how much of Dylan's presentation of song is drama. Had he delivered his work the way he did that night, but in French, Hebrew, Pashto, etc., the emotion of his words would come across.
I once sang a few songs outside Talkies in Ohio City, after which a listener came up to me, thanked me for the music and told me about a time he was drawn to a stage by the emotion in a singer's voice. I realized later he was giving me a gentle nudge to let go more, forget about playing my voice to perfection, give myself permission to sound ugly, but more true.
It's interesting how the passage of time and word of mouth sometime redeem a 'failed artist's' reputation. Then again, what exactly is a 'failed artist'? Maybe the only failure is to give up creating because no one's paying attention. Now that's a suffocating thought.
Gaugin couldn't "draw well" and so worked around that.
Sounds like a thoughtful and effective solution, and this he is criticized for. I think it's very telling of the critics, who after all are representative of their time and culture, that they are more concerned with his ability to manipulate his materials in a prescribed, correct way than with his process, solutions, and most importantly his end result.
I was in a group discussion last night in which we considered singers who "were lousy singers." The subject of your previous post, Maestro Dylan, came up, as did others, Tom Waits, Billie Holiday. Again, we have here three masters who, for whatever reason physical or habitual, did not manipulate their material in a precise and pristine manner. Yet they, like Gaugin, created an art that has been accepted as canon and has communicated deeply with millions of souls.
It would be silly to think that making a line in tune or representative of a physical object are unimportant for artists. However, the above strongly suggests that something else is what makes art fine. Something indefineable yet obvious, all around yet elusive. Something like air.
My favorite part of this (Aside from knowing and having seen the responses of Susan's tender and powerful audience) is her comment about a "lyrics lover who didn't understand a single word of the show" and Walt's "I'm not sure what it is that Bob Dylan touches in us."
There is an indescribable essence to what makes his music and lyrics so effective. I think it's that way with all fine things, and sometimes trying to put a finger on it only makes it scoot away the more. Bob may have, as usual, said it best:
At dawn my lover comes to me and tells me of her dreams
with no attempts to shovel a glimpse into the ditch of what each one means.
At times I think there are no words but these to tell what's true.
And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden.