Artists vs. Non-Artists

I consider myself an artist.  But whenever I start to talk about ‘artists’ apart from the I-mess-with-paint definition, people start to get uncomfortable.  The term ‘artist’ in this culture carries with it a picture of elitism and snobbishness.  This is because most artists tend to be elitists and snobs, and take great pleasure in corrupting the next generation of artists with the same we-are-special beliefs.  But I believe the artists have done a great disservice to their own name.  The word ‘artist’ used in the abstract is a useful term, and I for one would like to be able to use it without sounding condescending. 

So, for the record, here is my view of artists and their place in the human race.

Artists are not better than other people.  In fact, they are frequently much worse, since by adopting the vaunted label of ‘artist’ many artistically-inclined people feel they now have permission to let all their vices run wild – particularly pride, which is the most odious of all the vices. 

Artists do have a special understanding of beauty and creativity.  But while that may be our blessing, we are constantly dogged by our curses.  We have great gifts, but we also have such great weaknesses. 

And isn’t that the story of everyone? 

No one has yet mastered the trick of being a complete and perfect human being.  When we are born there is written on our souls somewhere a list of all the things we could be and do, all the ways in which we can be human, all the fascinatingly beautiful things that make life worth living.  But as we grow, we grow lopsided.  I think that’s part of the curse – some things that others find hard will come to us naturally, and some things that to others are easy will, inevitably, be painfully difficult for us.  We can pour ourselves into one thing or many things, but there will never be enough time, energy, and talent for us to grow strong in everything.  

However, that means we all have things we can teach each other.  Yes, we have our great leaders, great scientists and explorers, great organizers, great teachers, great husbands and wives and parents, great healers, great counselors, great artists* – people who have pursued their gifts to the fullest.  But regardless of our gifts, each of us should try, in our own ways, to learn to explore, to teach, to organize, to counsel, to heal, to lead, to create.  When we stretch ourselves in the things that don’t come naturally, we discover more ways to live.  In a sense, we become more human.

An artist, then, is one who teaches beauty and creativity, because that is his gift and that is what he has to give.  A wise artist must guard the truth that creativity is for everyone, that no one has a monopoly on beauty, that these things are a part of being human that should not be fenced off by elitism.  And an artist must remain humble before those who have strengths where he has weaknesses -- which is everyone, really -- and always be willing to learn more about the mystery of living. 

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*I mean these outside the strict occupational definitions of the words.  

Frustrations

I have so many things that I love, but I cannot seem to make a story out of them. I have words that swirl about my head like a cloud, but they are miniscule droplets that refuse to come together and form rain – rain that would fill a mountain vale with a purple-grey quiet and make the summer greenery wet and feel like spring again. Like my life, with the trees that sometimes group together to suggest a forest, images gather in my mind with such realism that I believe the story to be there, somewhere; a landscape lurking behind fog, so grand that even the glimpses make you gasp in delight. I do not need an imaginary world to live in. I need a work of art, something to unveil, an expression, something that can be given away. But neither can I labor on with only the barest of purposes, hoping to gain momentum. I am an artist, not an artisan. I must reach for something beautiful, or else I will touch nothing.

And yet to wait for inspiration is to begin to die slowly.

Summerliness

We went to the mall with my aunt today.  I haven't been in a mall in a while, and it seems that each visit is worse than the last.  Our culture is not a passive culture -- it's a jump-on-you-and-beat-you-up-with-a-club culture.  All the stores sell all the same clothes, all the clothes cover less than they show, and all the songs are about sex and are played way too loud.  And all the pictures?  They all say the same thing: you have to look like this.  You're a failure if you don't look like this.  If you can't fit into these clothes, there's something wrong with you.  If you do have a nice body, you should show it off.  It's abominable.  The culture appears set on making the 95% of us who don't look like models feel absolutely miserable (and disgusted).

On the plus side, though...cute new shoes!  (It's been a while since I had any of those.)

I'm going to start reading Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art by Madeleine L'Engle.  I'm very interested to see what it's like, since I've been a fan of her books for years and happen to be a writer (and a Christian) myself.

Peeking into The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron again has given me a revelation.  The reason this break from writing has lasted forever is because I don't need just a break: a need a full-scale recovery operation.  I need to go back to basics, ditching all my lofty goals and plans in order to simply rehabilitate my creative side.  In other words, I need to play.   So that's what I've been doing this week, and I've discovered something interesting: my creative self is still there.  It just afraid of things like "Oh, that doesn't count.  You didn't even finish it," or, "Goodness, you will look like a complete numbskull if you write the story that way."

So right now, me and my creative self are mostly hanging out in coffee shops that don't exist and giving cute imaginary cats names like Lord Ivywood.

Oh, and apparently I made several people very happy by inventing the word snickergiggles. 

Anyone attempting to claim that my brain is in any way ordinary shall be tossed out on their ear for obstinately ignoring the obvious. 

Writers and Wannabes

            How do you know when you’ve crossed the line from ‘writer wannabe’ to official writer?  When someone outside your family says it’s good?  When you get something published? 

            Everyone has a slightly different definition in their own mind.  And for good reason – I don’t think we can point to an official line and say, “Left of this line, you’re a writer.  Right of this line, you’re just a wannabe.”  I’ve read published writers who I would throw in the ‘wannabe’ category.  And I’ve read things posted on humble blogs that screamed to be in print. 

            The key, I think, is to keep in mind the fact that you always have something yet to learn about writing.  Always.  Writing is thinking, and until we’re perfect (which won’t happen in this lifetime), we will always have rough edges.  Hey, there’s a reason that we don’t read first drafts in bookstores.  Professional writers are just people who are good at fixing their mistakes.  (Eventually they get good enough that they fix their mistakes beforehand – when the story is still in their head.  Even still, who ever has prose that turns out sparkly the first time?) 

            You haven’t ‘arrived’ until you realize just how far you are from arriving.  That’s the first step toward being a great writer.  Delusions of grandeur plague all of us, but the mature among us are those who don’t believe the daydreams.