On being a conservative
I remember
when I was young and in college and spent a “work period” (I went to Antioch) in New York City, going up in an elevator one
day, someone got on and asked me who my favorite artist was. (I must have been carrying portfolio or paints or a canvas.)
Being shy and awkward, I mumbled and stuttered and finally said “Rembrandt.” “Humph,”
he said, as he walked off the elevator and out of my life forever, “you must be a conservative.”
I have periodically revisited that mysterious
encounter during the rest of my life. What did he mean? What should I have said? Had I encountered some aspiring modern artist
who thought that he should be recognized? Or a critic? Was I really a “conservative?”
I think that the answer is not so important.
It’s interesting to me that, since there was no answer, it has remained a mystery and has hung up in time. And I think the
answer is, really, that I don’t have to have a “favorite artist.” The question is improper. One of the great things about
art is that it gives you a lot of choices.
The Fearsome Screams of the Creative Angst
 Now I'm about
to retire from my day job, I have to face the angst of being, once again, an unpaid (or underpaid) artist. Why is it, I muse,
that people who have no qualms about paying $100 or more for a nice dinner, or $200 an hour to a lawyer or to a psych
(oh, well, that's probably covered by insurance, and who pays for that, after all) blanche and flinch when told that a portrait
will cost $3500. Let's see, $3500 divided by 80 hours (two weeks' work) is only $43.75 an hour. What is the price of creativity?
And, oh, by the way, what is the price of originality?
Shall I hear the fearsome screams of the Creative Angst? Probably not. I
shall go on painting as long as it pleases me. Then, I'll either have a viable audience or I'll retire from that and find
good homes for all my children.
Those artists that I really feel for are the ones who became "stylish"
and "owned" by a gallery so that, thereafter, they could only paint Pollock or Rivers paintings. Have I said this before: Converting creation into re-creation might cause the death of the artist. That's
the true angst. I must continue to try new things.
Or is this all merely the fearsome scream of the Creative Angst? By the way, having said
all that, Portrait of Monroe was accepted in the current month's show at the Torpedo Factory in Alexandria.
It's what I do
Recently, one of our poet friends was dismayed when another poet friend said
that he wasn't sure that being a poet was the be-all and end-all of existence. (Well, that wasn't how he said it, exactly,
but it amounted to something like that.) For this poet friend, it is. It's a difference of "reality" and thus, an out-of-agreement
idea.
And sometimes it's hard to say: "I'm a poet" when those around you are giving
you statistics that seem to have a much more impressive impact on the world.
Now, I'm an artist (and sometimes a poet.) Heretofore, although I make
some money at it, I have not made it into a self-supportive activity. But what does this contribute to the world? Sometimes,
when my paintings seem irrelevant, or it seems that there are plenty of good artists, or I'm feeling particularly rejected
by the art world, it seems that I don't really contribute. Here are these terrorists blowing up people; here, on the other
hand, are these people changing people's lives; and there am I, painting pretty pictures.
Well, I can look at it two ways. First, it's what I do. I don't really have
to justify what I do to anyone. I produce things that, at worst, do no harm, and, at best, bring some joy to someone. Second,
there's an almost magical aspect to "doing" art. It has nothing to do with the product. When I'm painting, and I'm really
into it — you know, roaring along with no sense of time — I feel that I'm adding beauty or love or some sort of positive force
to the world. (Sort of like, in Peter Pan, didn't Pan tell Wendy to "think good thoughts" in order to fly?) You create something.
The physical sciences say there's no gain or loss, that matter and energy fluctuate. But the artist puts something there where
there was only matter. It's not IN the physical universe. But maybe it's in the spiritual universe, and, though we can't touch,
taste or smell it, it's somehow there.
I don't think that being a poet or an artist is the be-all and end-all of
existence. In fact, I think that the way the world is going now, doing things that make an impact on the physical universe
may be very important to all our futures.
"....I don't see that popular measures, self-abnegation and democracy
have done anything for man but push him further into the mud. Currently, popularity endorses degraded novels, self-abnegation
has filled the Southeast Asian jungles with stone idols and corpses, and democracy has given us inflation and income tax."
In Scientology, we have some precise techniques that better conditions. People become more sane, more capable, and more in tune with themselves.
So, while art and poetry is what I do, I also "do" and encourage others to learn more about "doing" Scientology because I'm
not very fond of the current state of the world and I'd hate to wake up and find that future choices have become more narrow
and ugly because of the insanity of some.
I got it out of my system
Well, I'm no longer addicted to The Sopranos. That is, I'm addicted, but the source has been withdrawn. I don't subscribe
to extensive cable, so I had heard about this show for some time before Dean brought home the first of the "first season"
episodes that had been released in Videotape format from the Blockbusters near us. We watched some of the episodes and
lost the thread when Blockbusters started converting from tape to DVD and the DVD contained a different grouping of episodes
from the tape. In any event, it wasn't until Dean was down in Florida for some training that I began looking for the episodes
again. Well, I got hooked. There is some good writing and good acting in the show, in my opinion. And just about everyone
in close proximity to me had to be advised that I was watching the Sopranos because my speech became peppered with "fuckin'"
this and "fuckin'" that. In fact, I think it was only during the last three episodes, which I devoured last night in
one long orgy from the time I got home until past my bedtime, that I realized what it was that particularly attracted me to
the show. It's the prevailing emotional tone level! For some reason, continuous and repeated anger (when not particularly dangerous and not directed at me) CHEERS ME UP!
It's such a direct venting of emotion. In a society where much communication is veiled and unpredictable, anger seems very
direct and capable of being handled. Follow that above link and find out more about the emotions if you want to know what
I mean.
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