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Artists cannot be religious zealots. The pursuit of art is the opening of a
truly individual soul. It cannot be bounded by dogma. It does not seek refuge
from life's uncertainties in someone else's answers. (That is not to say an
artist's lifelong search for his own spirituality cannot lead to sincere
religious revelation.)
I'm an artist. At least that's how I must label myself when confronted with the completely unspiritual task of filling out forms. For the IRS, I'm "8888" or "other" -- a much better description of me these days, at home with two small children. As I've said before, these two boys are one of the main reasons I write -- in the hope it will someday help them know their father more fully. So I feel compelled to take on the subject of "art", although it is the most difficult for me to write about. As an artist, I spend entirely too much time alone with my own thoughts, so I can digress a long way in any direction. Art is also a slippery and a personal subject. So, for much of what I might say, I can as easily state the opposite and feel it to be just as true. There again is an important difference between art and religion. Fundamentalist religion seeks to resolve life's dichotomies; art, on the other hand, celebrates all the contradictions inherent in human existence. The proverbial struggle of the artist isn't about technical mastery. It's the continual challenge to understand and accept dichotomy. And that starts with the nature of art itself. For instance, passion and inspiration must abide with discipline. Passion drives the creative process, yet mastery is only attainable through discipline, which is the ability to keep working when inspiration is lacking -- when one's passion would prefer to do something else -- anything else. There are people who are doing something else with the same passion, creativity and discipline. But, for some reason they are not called artists. I feel no more an artist than Marguerite and Pat, with their amazing organic farm -- or than my wife, Lisa, with her ability in listening well and counseling at Planned Parenthood. Perhaps art is not what one does, but how one does it. Anyone who has the patience and perseverance to follow their heart must be an artist. By listening to their own soul, they bring creativity, integrity and personality to their work -- quietly enriching our world. Still, our society seems to separate pure artists from those who do other work -- it draws a line somehow between the arts and the real world. "Art" gets put on a pedestal, as an ideal; yet, when things get tight, art is quickly dumped as a frivolity. I think every working artist deals with a similar feeling at some point. There's nothing more the artist wants than to express the complete fullness of life -- to work with the richness of the whole human condition. With that ideal as inspiration, it's difficult to find oneself day-after-day stuck in a small room, tucked away from the world, making small pictures. It does begin to seem frivolous as the whole rest of the world goes on in all its wonder outside the studio door. Luckily, for most of us, the pursuit of art comes with built-in insurance that we won't entirely miss the outside world. It takes years, maybe decades, for our art to support us. As a result, we have to work. Myself, I can count at least sixty different jobs, and only the art market can determine if I'll have to add to that list in the future. Temporary, seasonal or part-time work -- dishwashing, waiting tables, planting trees, delivering who knows what -- anything that will not lead to a career will do. One of my other jobs did lead to a career possibility. I had long since received my master's degree in art and had begun selling a few paintings in galleries. At the time I was beginning my eighth summer working at a residential camp for disabled children with the Children's Aid Society of New York City. I was the program director, but felt lucky to still be able to spend well over half my time with the kids. Never have I used all my skills as often and as thoroughly. I spent my days with people of every imaginable size, shape, color, ability, age, creed and socio-economic background, including some of the staff from around the world. It was the hardest work I've ever done, physically and emotionally, by far the longest hours, and it was topped off by the worst food I've ever eaten. I loved it -- I've never had as much fun working. At one point I enrolled at USF in Special Education, then I decided against it. Eventually I was offered an inviting position with the Children's Aid Society, with a good salary (something I've never had) and incredible benefits. Anyway, back to the start of my eighth summer there. Usually I spent the rest of the year in Arcata painting, but I had wintered in New York, working part-time downtown for Children's Aid. I could see that something was happening -- that I was on career track. I could also see how much time and energy I would have to put in to do this work year round, and to do it well. It was very obvious that painting would no longer be a major part of my life. I wrestled with that. From the time I could hold a crayon, I was drawing. I know well that I'm not the most talented at visual art, but I have always loved doing it. Four years of science oriented high school and four years of occupation obsessed college didn't dampen my enthusiasm for art. And once I understood it as a pathway to self discovery, I enjoyed it even more. Yet, I couldn't help compare it with my new world of working with people -- a world of nurturing, laughing, caring -- a world of constant, vibrant and meaningful interaction. In comparison, making art seemed quite trivial. In a world so immediate and physical, art seemed removed and abstract. Beyond the work I was doing with children, there were others doing important, practical and real work everywhere. They were feeding refugees in the Sudan, growing organic food in the Catskills, organizing co-ops in Nepal, helping the Sandinistas in Nicaragua and working against racial violence in L.A. How could painting pictures compare to any of that? It seemed like an entirely selfish pursuit. Why was I so hesitant to give up my devotion to art, when there was obviously so much more to do that made so much more sense? At the time, I thought I was merely, and finally, making a career choice. I didn't realize that I was also dealing with a huge dichotomy. The revelation came at the end of a warm summer night in the East Village. I was with a group of new counselors, mostly from out of the country. We were waiting in the Bleecker Street station for a train to take us back uptown so we could get the van and go home. It was brutally hot, as the subway always is in the summer, we were tired, and, unfortunately, we had chosen a station that wasn't on the express route. A couple trains rolled past us, with a long time in between. Then the accordion player started. His partner sang with his whole heart and the music bounced vibrantly off the tile and concrete. The songs were mostly a bit on the dark side -- Kurt Weil to gypsy music. We were enthralled. Our mood changed so much that we even managed to nudge a couple polkas out of the musicians and we danced. We tipped well. Our train finally came and we let it go by. That was the moment I understood just how important art is. It transcends our physical world. Without art, we are animals seeking comfort and food. When the inner light of one person ignites that same light in others, we are lifted from the physical -- we can believe in our gods, we can travel in time. Our souls can dance from melancholy as well as from joy. Whether the simplest story or the most complex symphony, we are momentarily taken somewhere beyond our meager bodies. Art is what makes us human. Art's usefulness lies in its complete impracticality. It may at times help alleviate human suffering or even provide gainful employment for a few. The spark that brings it to life, though, is neither practical nor intentional -- it is the passion of self-expression. When one sets out on the path we call "art", one does not try to feed the hungry, to nurse the sick or to build roofs for the homeless. Instead, the artist begins what appears to be a self-centered journey -- searching for truth and beauty. He is concerned at the outset with only his own mind and, later, with his own soul. Self-expression is the sharing of that search. Only in the sharing can the artist attain humility -- the act of honoring and listening to those who respond. If the artist can persevere through the years -- searching, listening and refining his craft -- he begins to provide light for others. By searching only and earnestly for himself, the artist gives us our very humanity. © 2005, 2007 Alan Sanborn |