In college, I took an art history class. A lot of my friends who were actually visual art majors (my husband included) saw art history as a necessary evil toward getting their degree, but wouldn't have elected to take the class by choice. I, on the other hand, loved it.
To be fair, part of the reason might be that I stopped by the campus coffee shop before every art history class and therefore associate the subject with caramel macchiatos, plus the room was always dark and the seats were comfy and reclined. Still, I do think it was the subject matter more than anything else that won me over. I've always been fascinated with art and art movements. I love the way, it never fails, that these artistic movements come as a response to secular changes happening in the day. You want to know why a historical group of artists suddenly started doing things a new way? Study their newspapers. It's all connected.
The artists themselves intrigue me, too, particularly the fact that like-minded musicians and painters and sculptors and actors whose names ended up in history books were actually not only contemporaries, but friends. My favorite example is Paris in the early 1900s, a place where artists congregated and fed off each other, and a time when exciting innovations were taking place in the arts. Composers, visual artists, authors, and poets all mixed and mingled, resulting in a virtual beehive of creative activity. Stravinsky rubbed shoulders with Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, and Jean Cocteau. The group wasn't without their tiffs and jealousies, of course, but ultimately, they were friends. They went to concerts and art galleries together. They'd get together at each other's homes and talk late into the night about art, music, literature.
And there's something quite crucial in that; don't overlook it. I would venture to say that part of the reason these artists changed the world with their art - that is to say, part of the reason their work was so excellent and influential, was because of the very friendships they kept, and their commitment to those friendships. They surrounded themselves with people who knew them well, who wouldn't let them get by with mediocrity, who laughed with them and ate with them and sharpened their senses.
This is interesting to me because, for one thing, artists don't always work well together, nor do they always get along with each other. Thus, many artists resort to being lone rangers. We artists excuse ourselves from the group with the defense that, "I'm different", "I'm misunderstood", or the ever popular justification, "I'm an introvert." And all these things may be true of a person. But that doesn't change the fact that, as I've only recently begun to discover, everyone needs a place to belong. A place to be heard. It is, without a doubt, essential.
A few months ago, I was really struggling over how to divide my limited free time between living in community with friends (which requires a good chunk of time) and continuing my art of creative writing (which, conflictingly, requires considerable stretches of time in solitude) . I wish I could say that I found the perfect solution and that I was about to share it with you now. No such luck. What did happen, instead, was that I picked up a book entitled "Scribbling in the Sand," by Michael Card, and read the foreword by a man named Makoto Fujimura. If you aren't familiar with "Mako", as we fans of his like to call him, check out his bio here. In this foreword, Mako speaks of "the call to community, the impoverished power that sets the soul free...", of words deeply woven into the fabric of creativity, and into the struggle of asking God to create that community around us.
Clearly, I thought, this is a man committed to both excellence in his art ( and the time which that demands), while also remaining firmly committed to living in a way that he is known by others and they are known by him. My next logical thought was, "I'll ask HIM how it's done!" And being somewhat impulsive about these sorts of things, I shot him off an email within the next five minutes.
To my great surprise and delight, he replied to me that very day - which is a big deal, because who replies to emails right away anymore? Plus, he's famous. And I'm not.
His words were just the encouragement I needed to hear at that point.
I don't know if any of you share my struggle between making time for both what you love to do and for deep, meaningful relationships. Perhaps not. But just in case, I'll share an excerpt from Mako's email to me, in hopes that it might provide encouragement to you, as well.
Mako writes:
"I daily experience this tension between community and the necessity of solitude in creating. I will tell you that this is a tension that is inherent in life itself, and I do not know if I have solved it as of yet!
But, having admitted to this, I do find that both sides of experience lead to one another. Paradoxically, what the communal life needs the most is the experience of solitude; and what the creative life needs the most is the experience of community.
The monastic tradition (Franciscans and Benedictines included) have rich layers of tradition and wisdom that balance the two sides, the contemplative and communal, and we have much to learn from them.
The overlap between the experience of communal life and the creative life is love. Both require full orbed love (agape, philia and eros... and more) to simultaneously transcend the barriers and create boundaries. Love is our "bottom line" in our lives. In order to love well, we must begin to journey within and without - to borrow William Blake's phrase "withoutside." "
I love that.
We must begin to journey within and without. Withoutside.
Full of love.
Blessings upon your day!