Good Art is Moving

ArtPrize 2014 has not officially begun and already there are protests about some installations. Silohuettes of armed gunpersons are atop the Urban Institute for Contemporary Arts (UICA). Some are calling them "snipers." They look the same to me as the Secret Service Officers who patrolled our few tall buildings when then Senator Obama campaigned here...or when back in the 1980s while I was living in Macon, GA, officers held guns atop buildings when Ronald Reagan spoke. In both cases, I was very aware of them and respected their authority.

I did not know that they were Secret Service agents. They did not show ID. I just assumed and believed the media.

But this post is not about the media, nor the Secret Service. It's about the purpose of art.

The purpose of art is to make us uncomfortable. To re-think, reconsider, or feel differently.

Art provokes.

Art is music, literature, visual media, experiential, staged and spontaneous.

Art happens to me when:

• I was 16 and heard the cadenza in the first movement of the Prokofiev 2nd Piano Concerto and worried that the pianist might die from passion and effort (he didn't).
• I hear an overture of a Broadway musical performed exquisitely and think of the passion of the composer, because becoming a composer of musical theatre is nearly suicidal, at least in terms of making a living.
• I hear Kurt Elling sing the words of Michigan poet, Theodore Roethke.
• I see a person help another person, especially if that offering of hand is spontaneous.
• My heart opens to love of a friend.
• My heart breaks...because of loss or sudden, unexpected change.
• I walk through the forest and see how many shades of green there are in nature.
• I have a rough paddle down a seemingly calm river and friends and strangers offer advice and helping hands. And an elderly gentleman picks me up while hitchhiking back to my truck.
• I arrange things nicely in our pop-up camper.
• When I watch the news and see stories of how humanity is sacrificed for power.
• I become so angry with the world that I weep.
• I regain my faith in the present.
  

I hope that as a community, we can reconsider art. That it's powerful and can make us grow through being startled, uncomfortable, tearful, joyful, and gleeful.

A poem for Michael

Long Point's apparitional
this warm spring morning,
the strand a blur of sandy light,

and the square white
of the lighthouse-separated from us
by the bay's ultramarine

as if it were nowhere
we could ever go-gleams
like a tower's ghost, hazing

into the rinsed blue of March,
our last outpost in the huge
indetermination of sea.

It seems cheerful enough,
in the strengthening sunlight,
fixed point accompanying our walk

along the shore. Sometimes I think
it's the where-we-will be,
only not yet, like some visible outcropping

of the afterlife. In the dark
its deeper invitations emerge:
green witness at night's end,

flickering margin of horizon,
marker of safety and limit.
but limitless, the way it calls us,

and where it seems to want us
to come, And so I invite it
into the poem, to speak,

and the lighthouse says:
Here is the world you asked for,
gorgeous and opportune,

here is nine o'clock, harbor-wide,
and a glinting code: promise and warning.
The morning's the size of heaven.

What will you do with it? 

Mark Doty 

The Uplifting Presence of Pain

"Some feelings hold important messages, and we need to respond and address the conditions from which they arise. Equally often, feeling states are simply present, the atmosphere in which we live. Even when they are strong, we don't need to suppress them, nor grasp and identify with them. Through all these permutations, we don't have to worry: no emotion is final."

Jack Kornfield, The Wise Heart: A Guide to the Universal Teaching of Buddhist Psychology. 

When I was learning to play the piano (and I still am), my two most important teachers each taught me the same thing, although they referenced and described it differently.

Louise Barfield, my muse and most wonderful friend and teacher of my youth always taught us to lean into the keys. "No skimming! No matter the tempo, you must play to the bottom of each key. That was the path to having a rich, textured tone. 

Lawrence Campbell, my stern, witty college music professor preached the message of proprioception. This neurological approach takes the stance that one learns from being in deep contact with where the body is at each moment. That noticing where the pressure is, where the fingers are, where the rhythm of the arms' movement...where the breathing occurs...all lead to a more present and centered performance. 

Both of these very important lessons guide me today. Not just as I learn a Rachmaninoff prelude, but also as I experience growth. 

Growth...is always uncomfortable. There are moments of joy, peak moments when a scene or vignette from life is completed...a pausable moment to experience an accomplishment. But, by in large, growth is uncomfortable; growth happens on hills.

But being fully present for growth brings joy and aura to one's life. "Ah, here I am in the middle of this expansion...this building of emotional muscle...this breathtaking change of plans in my life...now, at this moment I get to see how well I can go with change...with growth."

When dealing with injury and recovery, this ability to "not skim,' to "play to the bottom of the key," to "be in deep contact with the body" is most important. Noticing where one's breath is, where one feels the stretch and tension of challenging mending bones and healing muscles to have confidence in their miraculousness...there is growth. Or as Norm Fisher might refer to as the "embryo of compassion."

When one is offered up the experience to heal, rejuvenation is the unexpected and often uninvited gift. "Ah, here you are...my chance to come back stronger, different, with more adaptability."

Heal deeply. Own the pain, the process, the moment-by-moment opportunities to learn to move differently, perhaps more slowly one day and then a little faster the next.

Stay in contact with the pain. Make it your partner; your teacher.

Through pain, by breathing, and with patience, one renews.

And each moment is one of rebirth.

 

Ten Things About Me

It's my birthday, so I'm indulging a little bit with this post about me. From the silly to the candid, here are 10 things about me that you might ( or might not) know.

1. I was adopted at birth. It was not really through an agency, but more through word of mouth among my mother, a doctor, and a woman who had conceived me. It was made legal after the fact. I have immense respect for my biological mother and no desire to find her or my alleged 5 siblings. But, of course, I'm curious about all of them.

2. Early in life I was very ill, mostly due to very severe allergies and asthma. I stopped breathing twice and had to be revived. Because of my allergies, I had a very private and subdued childhood (think, Boy in the Plastic Bubble). During that time I read every book I could find and taught myself to read music and play the piano.

3. From the time I was four, I have been described as "aloof." I don't perceive myself as aloof (which infers being unfriendly), but I am very shy and socially insecure.

4. Throughout my life, all of my best friends have been just slightly older than me. Only in midlife did I begin to have close relationships with people my age or younger.

5. Because I wasn't socialized with other children (see #2), I have great difficulty relating to any child who is younger than 15. When, on the rare occasion that a child takes a liking to me, I am incredibly awkward.

6. I have loved learning, teaching, and all things educational since I was very young. I ALWAYS stayed after class...from at least 4th grade on...to talk to anyone. Custodians, bus drivers, playground supervisors, teachers....anyone who was around...I never wanted to leave any school setting.

7. My first job was at a community college. I was a rehearsal pianist for L'il Abner at John A. Logan College in 1979, and later for Man of La Mancha. I still have the most fond memories of that period of my life and am grateful for being in touch with those lovely friends who shared that time with me.

8. Despite loving learning and education, I was a clumsy college student. The experience of stumbling, getting up, stumbling bigger, getting up, and stumbling again...created the foundation for my adult life which is committed to optimism, resiliency, and hope.

9. I have deep friendships. I take each relationship very seriously. I was once taught that a true hug is one that is close enough and lasts long enough that each person becomes one for just a moment due to allowing two heart beats  to establish one rhythm. I believe and practice that. If you and I are friends, we hug with great comfort.

10. I love aging. I love my partner, my pets (those here and those who have transcended), my work, and my friends. When I entered my later 40s I began to realize the beauty of nature and the poignancy of urban life; I love that complex blend. My days are now touched by sunrises, trails, time at the YMCA with amazing friends; late afternoons at St. George's Hall; time at Founders Brewing Company; making meals at my home for John while the dogs vie for lap time and perhaps a nibble of potato; camping and biking trips with  great friends like Bryan and Jeff that are made possible by the generosity of Dave and Ed. Actually, I'm just happy that my life is filled with so many lessons and gifts.