Yet... I don't know. Complaining gets so old sometimes. In reality, aren't things OK on some level? I think so.
Yesterday I was talking to a friend of mine who is an artist. He finished up a very large graphic design project about a month ago, and he was telling me how he's felt artistically drained ever since the experience, and now needs to rest up before he can create again. That was a very intuitive conversation. I always look at myself as the creative type, and yet, I don't create much. Why is that? What worries me so? What shuts me up? What makes me feel creative? Or uncreative? I will just answer the penultimate question for now, and save the others for another time.
I think I have made it quite clear on more than one occasion that music inspires me a great deal. Perhaps it is time for a different conversation. Other things inspire me as well. Today is September 1st, and the fall is my favorite season. There are moments, at this time of the year, when I feel as though my soul will break through my skin and escape, uninhibited and care-free, into some "Goldengrove unleaving", where it would be free to commune with all of the greats for eternity. Yet, I must beg it not to go, for I need it terribly. I couldn't do without it all together, I am sure.
I think I am inspired by inspiration. Perhaps it makes more sense to say that I think that the creativity of others inspires creativity in me. The way that some women look at designer blogs for inspiration on re-decorating their houses, I listen to music, read poetry/prose, watch films/videos etc. to inspire me to some action--any action, really, outside of the mundane of the everyday. I take it back. I even sometimes find myself inspired to some greatness/creativity in something that belongs almost strictly to the everyday. The creativity of God also inspires my own creativity on so many occasions. What poet can say that they have not felt inspired by some scene of nature? Nature is probably one of the most over-worked cliches there is in the world of poetry and art in general, and yet, it remains. People can forgive the repetitiveness of a theme, if that theme can be termed "God's canvass". I, for one, can certainly forgive it. I think it is wise of us to give nature a chance in our art, no matter how many times it fails from overuse, there are always those moments when an artist captures the essence so perfectly, it is as though we have opened the leaves of some old book in which we once laid a flower to press, and find that it had rooted and blossomed again within the pages, that now it thrives and feeds only on the words written there, to some new life.
When I first started my undergraduate degree (over four years ago now, I can hardly fathom it) I read, loved, wept over, and eventually memorized the following poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins. I wrote two papers on it, the second of which may have been a small instance of self-plaigarism (who knew that existed?) and I do not believe I received a high mark on either of those papers. In retrospect I care so little about anything I had to say there. I'm sure it was utter nonsense, and my professors were probably generous with their grading.
If I were a choral conductor, I would arrange this into a masterwork. Its creativity would fuel mine and I would draw from it with miserly glee.
Spring and Fall to a Young Child
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
I mourn for her too. I wish she could go on believing life to be as she wishes it were. But, for now, all is well. She is blissfully unaware, and can only catch glimpses of what is to come. Dark, perhaps, but I see the redemption in it. It certainly inspires me. I think I'll quit my job. Or perhaps just write my own poem on fall. I am sure it would be rubbish to the utmost degree, but one would have to forgive me, if we didn't all try it, no one would have succeeded in it. That would have been a shame of the utmost kind.
On the similar vein, (or perhaps it merely seems connected, in my state of utter exhaustion) I am reminded of an evening in late spring when I had plans to attend a concert in Salt Lake City. It was one of those rare occasions where you end up with tickets to a concert you would not have typically known of, but subsequently become very enthusiastic about. Somehow, the evening of this concert, we got a late start and were not able to make it in the doors before they closed them. I was moderately upset about this, as the concert was to be the world premier of the "Double Concerto for Violin and Viola," by Paul van Brugge as performed by the Orchestra at Temple Square. Luckily, they were broadcasting it at the theatre on the grounds, so we were able to experience it on some level from that location. It is curious, in retrospect-- I remember aspects of that evening so well-- yet, If I heard the concerto playing right now, having heard it only once, I would not know it from any other. That night, sitting there yards from the actual concert venue, I could feel the energy of the performance envelope me so entirely that it drove me to tears. I can only imagine what the reaction would have been had I been in the actual concert hall. Eventually, we thought it a good idea to leave the theatre a few minutes before the concerto ended, to ensure we could have the chance to enter the actual tabernacle during intermission.
In doing so, we learned that the building does a fairly good job at keeping the sound inside of itself. Consequently, the end of the performance was experienced visually, more than aurally. I remember so clearly, the way my eyes were fixed, light diffused, through those little panes, as I rested my elbows on that window ledge and drank that performance in until every last drop was gone, the conductor's baton up and down, the movement of the instruments, the performers, somewhat rhythmic, yet independent, building, climbing, hints of the music being produced, some of the louder chords piercing through--
then my eyes perceive silence....
applause breaking that silence....
applause breaking my worship.
Worship. Worship of God, of art, of creativity, of beauty, of truth, of love.
I think that may have been one of the most poignant evenings of my entire life. Creativity inspires creativity? You see, it seems I must produce.
Would you know this scene, had I not described it? Do we always need description in prosaic terms? If you want to convey a scene or a detailed story, add words. It might be said that modern tradition (is that a useful term?) and most definitely Eastern tradition tell us that if we want to convey a feeling, remove words, pack them in, pare them down. I've a long way to go before I have learned to do it artfully. Bear with me, please.
Dusty windowpanes:
Glass drowning sound--deflecting
music to my eyes
I don't feel I've captured it. Give me time, I will keep working on that one. I think it merits work.
I think I merit work.
I think I need some sleep.
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