Finished Sedaris about a week ago. Not my favorite one, but funny and entertaining nonetheless.
Friday I finished Downtown Owl by Chuck Klosterman.
This book left me in somewhat of a funk. Though the funk might (at least in part) be due to the triple-whammy of sinus infection, virus, and headache that left me in bed for most of the morning and afternoon on Friday. I hope more people lead more interesting lives than the characters of this book. Horace was my favorite, but overall the book was a depressing tale of people living quasi-predictable slow lives in Owl, North Dakota. Owl is a town full of alcoholics, where everybody knows everything about everyone else. And then they die in a blizzard, that you knew was coming because Klosterman told you about it at the beginning of the book. A reviewer said it well when he quipped, “Life is normal, he [Klosterman] seems to say, until it’s not.” I’ll let you know if I have any dazzling epiphany’s about this book as it marinates in the back of my mind, but realistically, I probably won’t have any of those.
I’m still working through The Healing Path. I’m nearly done, but am letting each section simmer before moving on to the next. I find with books like this, that I get much more out of them if I read with this method.
But powerlessness against constancy does not me defeat. Rather it means I must be ever vigilant—ever seeking truth & shalom, ever feeding goodness into my soul, into my life.
In other words, see the art for what it is and do so without being distracted by the life of the artist. As an artist it took me a while to digest this idea. Probably because my own art is so integrally tied to who I am and the life that I live. But as I’ve mulled this idea over in my head I think I’m finally starting to grasp that as art stems from life, the art explains that which the life cannot.
This quote came from an article in a back issue of Sculpture about one of my favorite female artists, Eva Hesse. Hesse struggled for years as a decent painter but didn’t hit her prime until she began working in 3-D. Her life, by all accounts was a mess. She fled Nazi Germany as a child, experienced her parent’s divorce, survived her mother’s suicide and her father’s death, had a failed marriage, and then she died of brain cancer . . . when she was 34.
The quick fame accompanied by a hard life and tragic death seem to be the lens through which most people view her work. But I agree with Sontag, find life from the art, don’t explain the art based solely on the tragedy of the life. Use the art to learn something new about the life of Hesse, not the other way around. This is where the great beauty of Hesse shines. Her art is playful, delicate, mischevious, and sometimes even comedic. See these sides of her life from the art. See the sides of her life that were actually good.
I can sink my teeth into this. I know when I create, when I paint, when I draw, when I sculpt, that these things are coming from the innards of my being. Intellectualized or not, they are a part of my life coming out. Standing back from a painting I’ve lost myself in creating, I see bits and pieces of my life that I can now explain. Where as before the art, the pieces were buried, known by others and especially unknown by me.
“Shalom is a peace that not only recalls all the pieces of one’s life but sees how the parts fit together in a unified and glorious whole. Shalom involves rest and gratitude; it provides a momentary balance and harmony where all things seem right. We know for moments of this peace, but it is not familiar to us.”
Later, he goes on to say, “Disruption of shalom is the soil God uses to grow us to become the people we are meant to be.”
Which he follows with, “All these stories disrupt our shalom and send us reeling into confusion and doubt. When the disruption compels us to search, we eventually find ourselves in a corner where we are forced to turn and stand face to face with God.”
This is where I am. In a corner. Sometimes I face the wall and feel powerless, other times I dare to turn around and, although Allender says stand, I don’t feel that strong most of the time. So instead of standing, generally I’m more lying in the fetal position, in a corner, curled up into myself, with my eyes squeezed shut. When I’m brave enough to open my eyes, I catch glimpses of God. It’s those glimpses of hope, glimpses of the future, that are helping me to learn to think beyond this life, this world I know. Slowly but surely I am learning to uncurl myself. Unfold my grip on my plan, my life, my career, my family. Learning to let go. Learning to stand and be the creature that God made me to be. The person, the human, made in His image. A bearer of His mark. A believer of Shalom.
I usually operate at about 96%. In other words, I never usually have my act COMPLETELY together. Although I do give it my best shot, it never fails, that elusive 4% gets me every time.
Take last week for example. It’s 8:00 am and I’m geared up to teach my first class of the semester. 145 undergrads file into the room. I’m all suited up, lecture loaded, website working, syllabus completed. Check, check, double check. Everything goes as planned. Perfection. . .or so I thought until about 10:30 when I realized that my zipper had been down for, oh perhaps the last TWO AND A HALF hours. Like I said, 96%.
While dining in Chicago my friends and I discovered a new game: narrating the internal dialogue of our restaurant companions at Harry Caray’s:
Scenario 1: Ms. Lonely heart: Gorgeous woman on a date with 2 gay men, one of whom she was oh-so-obviously in love with. I told my friend Brian I’d give him $20 if he would go up to her and say, “I’m sorry, I am a happily married man, but I just had to tell you that aside from my wife, you are one of the most strikingly beautiful women I have ever seen.” He didn’t do it. Minus 10 points.
Scenario 2: Tragedy meets Saved by the Bell: Bored but beautiful woman on an awful blind date with a guy who had Zack Morris hair and was quite proud of himself. She patiently listened to him talk about himself for over an hour wondering when she might escape the torture. Near the end we visibly saw her shift gears, give up, and decide, whatever, I’m tired of being alone and at least he’s not bald. They promptly left 5 minutes after the shift. Gross.
If push came to shove I think I could legitimately turn this game into a career.
Every day I die again, and again I’m reborn
Every day I have to find the courage
To walk out into the street
With arms out
Got a love you can’t defeat
Neither down nor out
There’s nothing you have that I need
I can breathe
Breathe now
&
Walk out, into the sunburst street
Sing your heart out, sing my heart out
I’ve found grace inside a sound
I found grace, it’s all that I found
And I can breathe
Breathe now
Over the past few years I’ve discovered that new relationships are somewhat like opening presents at a white elephant party where only half of the guests know about the ‘white elephant’ part. Sometimes you open an ill-wrapped and slightly-crumpled envelope, not expecting much, and instead find that you’ve just been given up close and personal tickets to see U2 live (in Atlanta, on October 6 . . . not that I’m excited or anything). Other times, you reach for a package that has all of the markings of something great and you’re really excited about discovering what’s inside . . . and then sadly, you find out that it was yet another pretty box filled with toilet paper and old socks.
Hers was bigger and better, but you get the picture.
About two weeks ago a spider moved into my back yard. I know, I know, there are probably HUNDREDS of spiders that live there already, but this one is like the King, or rather, the Queen of all of the spiders. She is gigantic and her name is Charlotte. And every night for the past week or so I’d sit out on my back porch and watch her build her web. And boy did she build. She’d string it from the power line to the side of my house, and then anchor it to my hydrangea bush & back patio. The actual web part of her web was probably a good 3 feet on any given night. It was really beautiful.
I’m not sure why, but every morning she’d be gone again. Sometime between midnight and 6 am she’d move on and take her web with her. I could usually spot her around dusk, starting over. Weaving her way into the night.
Tonight when I went out to watch, Charlotte wasn’t there any more. I almost cried. But then I remembered this great line from a children’s book that my brother and I love, “never saying goodbye means you never get to say hello.”
In other words, see the art for what it is and do so without being distracted by the life of the artist. As an artist it took me a while to digest this idea. Probably because my own art is so integrally tied to who I am and the life that I live. But as I’ve mulled this idea over in my head I think I’m finally starting to grasp that as art stems from life, the art explains that which the life cannot.
