There's a Blaze of Light in Every Word · 1:38am Jan 26th, 2014
Thanks, Leonard Cohen.
Art and I have a strange relationship. Strained, unpleasant, tumultuous, and unstatisfying.
I'm an English Major. I'm devoting my life to the wild hunt for Art, to the stretching out after a marathon of running to touch the wings of Art's robes and beg for a bit of insight. Seven years toil, like Jacob for Sarah, and there's a decent chance I'll get Leah instead. Shafted or not, you have to try again, don't you?
On one hand, I love it. I believe in Art. I believe in it passionately. I've devoted three years of College to following it and defending it. Talk to me about Art and you will be flooded with the closest thing I exhibit to joy. Not just painting. Ars Gratis, the art that is for itself, the whole thing. Fiction, Poetry, performing, painting, composing, building, sculpting. The marriage of mind and body, of pure and raw thought with refined intention, the push of chance and the pull of reeling inspiration in the mundanities of life.
But I also am unhappy. It is the classic problems. Only that which is common to man, as the good book says: I see but cannot reproduce, scrabbling around like that goddamn Kierkegaard and his Repetition. The age old conflict of reality with thought, that I say and create but something is always missing, that there is this entropic quality in the air that makes all my words impoverished and ambiguous.
Even now, I'm relying on old cadences, old ideas, even old phrases. I'm just a hamster wheel. I sit on a wooden porch and smoke a pipe, a dirty college student with blue eyes and hair that is growing back too slow who hasn't showered yet because he never wakes up on time, in a stupid black wide brimmed hat and sweat pants like every other day, thinking that if he can fill the air with smoke he will make up for having wasted his time, but even the smoke leaves.
I've been writing.
The problems of Art are almost more than its benefits. No one is happy about it, or with it, or after it. Is it only in the moment or forever? Is it a monument more lasting than bronze, or a trifle that can be done only once and then all is silence?
I'm thinking in circles. Sometimes I feel like there are three travelers in the Comedia. It's Dante, it's Virgil, and then it's me, and Dante and I are fainting every eighty lines as we walk in concentric circles ever downwards and with every step it gets colder and colder.
But at the same time.
There's a bit of light in every word. Gaiman can talk about "make good art" as the viable approach to life's hardship (he's right) but for me, I'm struck by how impossible it is to leave or do anything, really. I keep thinking about Faulkner and his grating, high-pitched drawl talking about how man will endure and all of that, but in the context of his voice. That he'll be speaking and talking and telling stories when there's nobody left to listen.
I don't really know what to think about that!
But I just wonder if it doesn't matter how frustrating Art is, not because it's some sort of balancing of merits with drawbacks, but because it's just who we are and we can't get away without not being human. If it's built into us, no matter how philistine and degenerate we think we can be. I'm thinking about degenerate Italian pelebians in Pompeii who have not a shred of fame or wordly merit scrawling crude pictures on the walls and an attempt at verse, just because they can and they're human.
I need to stop thinking so much.
Art just cusses at me while lazing on the couch and asks for more beers.
Please help...
I have a lot of respect for art. However, I lack the ability to actually fully appreciate it.
I love it when you ramble at me.
Man, reading your blogs can turn into a real trip sometimes. That had a lot of deep-ness in it, and I haven't had much sleep, and I just don't know how to handle that right now...
Well... from personal experience, I have to disagree. All (4) of my stories — even the peach one that I call "stupid" and "silly" — I really am happy about having made. Something that goes through my head before every line I write is "Am I happy with this?" If the answer is no, I don't write it, and I keep thinking until the answer changes. And then once I have written it down, I roll it around in my head some more, seeing if what I was happy with could still be improved. All the art I've made is art with which I am happy. This goes for everything I've made, really, even those dumpy drawings of Kitsune's OCs. They represent the best of my (very limited) abilities, so I like them for what they are.
Quite honestly, I find it very hard to see where you're coming from with this. Maybe it's just my standards for what I make (being confident that it's my best) that allows me to be satisfied with it.
I'm sorry I can't really internalize this very well...
Ramble Ramble Ramble.
Art is art, and its natural to think your art is shit, it happens to all of us.
1759150 I don't know either
Like, the bit I showed you? I've been trying to keep Absolution tense and just NOTHING works. Ever.
Or so it feels
I wish I had something insightful to share, and while I share a similar road with you, I am yet far, far behind. I love these kinds of blog posts, though. Makes me happy and sad at the same time. Art is a struggle indeed.
Somewhat relevant:
If you're unsatisfied with your work, take heart, because it could be worse. You could be totally satisfied with it, and then you'd never get better. A lot of creators, upon achieving popular success, will stop workshopping, and their work's quality will plateau.
I suggest you do what I do: use each subsequent piece as an exercise to either try something new, or improve something that needs work. Don't set an arbitrary destination; just make sure you're taking steps forward in the journey.
Above all, don't be discouraged by temporary setbacks.
Oh, and... take care of yourself, Cyne.
Writing is the great art of telling the truth. All art is. The rest is merely more or less smart entertainments,