“Let me end here, on a plateau of happiness, rejoicing in my world as it turns inward once more toward creation.” — May Sarton, The House By the Sea
I’m not at an ending, but I am turned inward, and have been since the wind woke me up hours before dawn yesterday morning. It’s been a relief to talk to few people—texts with Katy D. about the nor’easter stealing her power and buying—finally—a digital copy of CMBYN, a few words with my favorite waitress Beze when I braved the wind yesterday for chocolate chip pancakes, assorted pleases and thank yous at Rite Aid, at Starbucks, but no real conversation.
I love being social, and I love sitting on my bed as I am right now in a pool of sunlight, finishing finally the last few days of Sarton’s journal for publication The House By The Sea. She, after all, inspired this project though she herself didn’t write everyday. (I know myself well enough to know I must take the extreme tack of writing every day in order to only miss a few days, as opposed to saying I’ll write every week or every other day in which case I’m sure to give up the project in a month or two.)
I thought I would write more about my daily goings-on in a more concrete sense, but it seems, as always, my concern is the emotional landscape, the past. I often ask artists when I interview them to tell me about their obsessions, the questions they return to time and time again. Mine is clearly how the past shapes us into who we are, and how its fingers—visible or not—have long reached into our futures. I suppose too I’m also interested in the question of forgiveness, and love too, but every artist is interested in the question of love one way or the other, don’t you think? Whether it’s love for a person, or a particular way of thinking and working, or particular materials. Is it fair to say we express who and what we love by the very nature of making art, whether that’s in affirmation or opposition to the beloved?
If I succumb and close my eyes and curl myself into this patch of sun—is it any wonder I’ve taken to describing myself as a cat in some of my poems?—this will be my second nap of the day. It’s occurring to me that allergy season has started and though the immunotherapy has, for the most part, ameliorated the worst of the symptoms, there is still always this lassitude as one season gives way to another, and my body puts up its dukes against new invaders, even as I keep telling it, Stand down, friend. There’s nothing to see here, nothing to fight. My body, as per usual, refuses to listen and/or cooperate.
Have I already told you that my favorite thing to do on a lovely day is to lie in bed with the windows open, the sun streaming across at least half if not all of the bed, lightly dozing and just listening to the world be the world—snippets of conversation, the grinding sounds the freight trains make as they pass through Silver Spring station, clapping and “Happy Birthday” sung at the Tex-Mex restaurant across the street, the burbling of the water feature in front of my apartment building all drifting up to my window in fits and starts, so I’m gently rollercoasting waves and waves of sound?
And you, your Saturday, how is the world being the world for you? Tell me dears, and I’ll like here in my little patch of sun and read all about it. I promise…
Here is my artist manifesto. Well, really, it’s manifesto-ish. Manifesto adjacent. It’s not meant to be rigid. I don’t intend to ride or die on this manifesto. What I’m interested in is what I believe as an artist at this particular moment—February 25, 2018 at 4:15pm—and how that informs my plans for the next five minutes, the next five days, the next five months. I don’t expect it to be exactly the same over the next five years, for, as Sonia Sanchez has said:
“I think that the reason why art stays alive is that the artist grows. I mean the body doesn’t stay the same; the brain doesn’t stay the same. Your art can’t stay the same.”
This manifesto-ish thing is by no means comprehensive. I fully expect to read it over tomorrow, or later tonight and see some holes, gaping or otherwise. Still, it’s a way to see where my head’s at, to gather my thoughts, after a week of iron sharpening iron conversations—including two individual chats today with women artists I respect and adore as well as a three-hour symposium listening to really smart, passionate people speak smartly and passionately.
I don’t think there is anything original in this manifesto-ish thing. I am not the only one who’s had these thoughts or ideas, and, in fact, many of these thoughts/ideas are paraphrases of what other people have said to me during various creative collisions. I don’t believe we either think or create in a vacuum, but more on that below.
So here are some things I think as related to the artist’s life and practice, which you can take as a manifesto or a roadmap or a meditation or a behind-the-scenes of my brain pan or not take in any way at all.
I have to define my quest, my hero’s journey for myself. I may be Frodo or I may be Sam. I may switch roles as the quest requires. My quest may not look like anyone else’s, nor may it even seem like a quest. All of that is okay. It’s about feeling a sense of momentum, moving forward (or inching forward), even if we cannot make out what it is we’re moving toward either consistently or conclusively.
It’s okay to not be able to see past the bend in the road. But I should also not be fearful to imagine what’s past the bend in the road. So what if I’m wrong?
I must dream big. Then dream bigger than that. Then take a step forward. Baby steps are fine. As are leaps.
I do not have to wait for my greatness. I have to walk into the greatness I hold within myself right now. And, yes, we all hold greatness within us in some form or fashion, in some magnitude right at this very moment.
I must consistently and constantly be willing to ask and answer the questions: How am I stopping myself? How do I not stop myself?
There is no such thing as originality. I am always standing on the shoulders of someone else’s thought, someone else’s creativity, someone else’s work. What I mean when I say something is my original work is “I am being as faithful as I possibly can within this work of art to my own experience, my own vision.”
If I can’t write from a place of authority, I must write from a place of discovery. I also need to privilege work created from a place of creativity over that created from a place of authority. To quote Azar Nafisi paraphrasing Milan Kundera, “Artists are not here to preach the truth, they are here to discover it.”
I must engage fully in my life at all times. What that means from day to day may change. And what that means for someone else is probably not what it means for me.
I must allow myself to take up space in my life and in the lives of others. I must allow myself to inhabit my voice fully. There are people who need my voice in the same way there are those whose voices I need.
…I can perhaps forget for whole minutes at a time that I am brown-skinned but I can never really have total empathy for, say, a white man cause I can never fully don that mantle of that certain type of privilege.
Reading back over what I wrote yesterday, I’m a little surprised that I wrote it out loud. I mean it’s the kind of post that could invite a slew of naysayers and enduring naysayers takes a kind of fortitude that I keep forgetting I’ve finally developed.
I was thinking today about the name of my blog—The Home Beete. When I first started it in May 2009, I thought it would be a good place to deposit my mania for interior design. But even as I posted pics of couches I adored or wallpaper I wanted to hang in my mythical house, I found myself also wanting a space where I could just write about whatever was in my head. Some place that was more than my journal. I read a wonderful quote from the visual artist Ann Truitt on Brain Pickings today: “…artists have no choice but to express their lives.” So it’s probably inevitable that this blog would become my sounding board, my workshop, the place where I experiment and tinker. Which sounds a lot like home, actually.
Home is the place where I don’t shower on weekends or days off (I know, gross). Home is where I pick my nose obsessively (I know, gross). Home is where my only exercise sometimes comprises moving from one end of the couch to the other. (Look, if you had my couch, you’d stick as close to it as possible, too.) In other words, home is where I can be utterly and completely myself in all my groovy, gross, lazy, manic, high-brow, low-brow selfness. Which sounds a lot like this blog, actually.
I think in addition to the Home Beete evolving into a place where I feel at home, it’s also the place where I find myself becoming more at home with who I am. With the sound of my voice. With what that voice likes to talk about, to scream about, to sing about. With how often that voice comes back to the same subjects. With how the courage of that voice waxes and wanes across a spectrum from sorta courageous to “Y’all motherfu**ers need to listen up now!”
Virginia Woolf famously wrote that every woman, in order to be an artist, needs a room of her own. I think Mrs. Woolf will forgive me if I rewrite that to every woman artist needs a home of her own. And in that home, as she paces its many rooms, filling them with this and that, rearranging the furniture willy nilly, throwing the occasional dance party, losing the vacuum and forgetting to do laundry on a regular basis, investigating what she’s lost under piles of dust and junk left behind by others, she will somehow stumble into the hiding place of that one need even greater than a home of her own—a voice of her own.
To be continued…