Life and Art

Writing is not easy. The trouble is, I’m too full of ideas. They come in bunches and I don’t know quite what to do with them. My monkey-mind thinks they should be cut into neat shapes and sewn into a quilt for posterity, so I spend hours trying to fit them together like a jigsaw puzzle. The task becomes sickening, for it’s a little crazy. A sensible person would write about one thing at a time, but as John Muir said, “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.” And now I feel the urge to research Muir and discover whether he was sensible, or a bit like me. I’ve always been like this. “Mr Mulder, you have a butterfly mind,” said my tutor in Italian, Dr Carsaniga. I’m tempted to take a walk in the rain, and let it wash away these words.

There’s another way, as taught by Natalie Goldberg in her shot at Zen-in-the-art-of-authory, Writing Down the Bones:

If you give your mind too much time to contemplate a beginning when you sit down to write, your monkey mind might meander over many topics and never quite get to putting a word on the page. . . [A] list . . . helps to activate your writing quickly and cut through resistance. Naturally once you begin writing you might be surprised where your mind takes the topic. That’s good. You are not trying to control your writing. You are stepping out of the way. Keep your hand moving.

To which I am tempted to say “Thanks, Natalie. That’s the easy part.” Perhaps that’s why I find myself stuck at an early chapter of her book, finding excuses all the time not to read on—to the parts which might really confront my inadequacy. In any case I can’t see myself like an eager student in class, taking notes and doing every exercise she sets. I’m too old to follow anyone or learn new tricks. What works for me are little phrases sent by an angel-messenger, either directly to my unconscious mind or through other people, such as these:

One of the things I like about this post is that you let your guard down in places. . . . some people hide behind studded leather jackets. (Bob)

my work [i.e. my art] IS me and so it does matter if it stands still, doesn’t evolve. (Natalie d’Arbeloff)

Yes, so maybe I should be less guarded, blur the distinction between the self and its productions. Which gave rise to the idea that one’s “me” is multi-layered. Everything one displays to the world is what you may call one’s art, which also acts as a guard to protect the more sensitive layers that lie within. So, for one person the outer layer is art in the conventional sense, for she has studied drawing and painting over a lifetime. In another it’s her care to be soignée when she goes out. She’s paid attention to her nails, hair, clothes, shoes, the way she carries herself. This outer layer could be art, or it could be a bony carapace which stops us evolving, unless we are prepared, from time to time, to cast off the exoskeleton and let it wash up on the tideline along with everyone else’s flotsam.

Writing a non-fiction blog centred on the pronoun “I”—as I do—one does need to keep up one’s guard, both for appearance’ sake and the sense of safety. In the marketplace, nakedness is not becoming. One’s productions are careful constructs. Perhaps they are separate creations like a suit of armour loosely modelled on the human form. If we are more daring they may be skintight and revealing. Either way, we must shed the old skin if we want to grow. To others, the “new” person emerging from underneath will closely resemble the old one; just a little fresher, maybe. The old one will be left behind on the tideline, for Time to dispose as it sees fit. And what is the cast-off skin? It has my DNA, but is dead, destined to fossildom or dust. “Fingernails are human too, but they don’t have rights,” says John Myste, long-time visitor to this site, offering me another thought about the relation of “my art” to “me”. [link here]

Another writer who’s taught me recently is Nicholson Baker, in his novel The Anthologist:

If you have something to say, say it. Don’t save it up. Don’t think to yourself, I’m going to build up to the truth I really want to say.

Easier said than done, and written by its author as much-needed advice to self.

I have left it till last, I’m afraid, but here is what I have to say, as triggered by Natalie G, Natalie D’A, Bob (aka Rob), John and Nicholson:

Instead of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”, as jotted by Thomas Jefferson in the middle of a war while thinking about what his side was fighting for, and what it would do post-victory, I’d propose different ideals:

—that we each and everyone be conscious artists, painting our existence on to the canvas of each new day
—that we let happiness pursue us, and don’t wait for the current war to be won. Life is too short.