It was another Thursday, this one an unseasonably warm and beautiful March day, but Tony West hadn’t noticed. He was preoccupied when he arrived at the Supreme Bean.
His friend, Carmina Sfumato had already claimed a table for them near the center of the seating area. After hugs, Carmina said she would treat. She went to the counter and asked the barista for two Maximo Caramel Supremes and two walnut and chocolate biscotti. As she waited for the order she looked back at Tony who was now staring out the window. He seemed somehow out-of-sorts. When she returned to the table Tony, without a preamble, said, “Depression and art are two sides of the same coin—in fact, just thinking about art is depressing. Don’t you agree?”
“What brings this on Tony? Carmina asked. “Are you depressed? What is it?
“Well it’s..it’s … oh come on Carmina, don’t tell me you never get depressed. You must have some doubts about your work. There must be times you ask yourself why stretch another canvas? What’s the point? You’re an artist and artists are never satisfied. I know I am not. To be satisfied is to settle. It’s to accept less than the best and that is mediocrity. Every artist I know wants to do better—wants their art to be appreciated—wants an audience—wants acceptance and approval. But deep, deep down inside most of them believe they are unworthy—I do. I doubt that my photographs have real meaning.” He said.
He went on, “It’s depressing yet I know I’m right Carmina? You know it too—at least I think you do. We’re artists. We make art because something seems missing in our lives—in our world—and we hope that by making art we can fill that void. It’s as if there is not enough beauty in the world and we try to add some. But if this is true then art is little more than a palliative.”
Carmina took time to digest what Tony had just said and then replied, “Well this conversation is certainly depressing. But really Tony, I don’t dwell on all this stuff, I just paint. It makes me happy. I find joy in color, form, texture and line. It satisfies me. And besides what’s the point of analyzing everything? Why stir things up and make yourself miserable? Sometimes you find meaning in the doing.’’
“But, Carmina, how can you justify doing something that has no practical utility and may be meaningless? I mean, what is the point of art? What’s it for? Who needs another painting, or photograph when the world is already overflowing with art—much of it unseen, unwanted and forgotten in flat files, basements, attics and garages.
Carmina felt concerned and irritated. Tony was acting petulant and self-pitying. He might also be clinically depressed, she thought. And while she didn’t want to further hurt her friend, who was already suffering, she felt she must defend what gave her life its meaning—making art and being an artist.
“Tony, you have every right to your opinions, but you do not speak for me. Making art and being an artist are meaningful to me because I choose it to be so. It’s just that simple. There is no ministry of meaning which decides what must be meaningful for us—there is no website from which you can order a purpose for your life. No Tony, you and only you can decide what is meaningful for you. After that the hardest part is living your life with integrity—being faithful to that which you have decided is meaningful.” Said Carmina.
Her words pierced the fog of Tony’s existential depression and he felt genuine relief. For the first time that afternoon he surveyed the rest of the room. The evidence suggested that several patrons had left in haste during the exchange he’d had with Carmina. Perhaps, he thought, they had not wanted to witness what seemed to be his imminent breakdown. Those who remained and were within earshot, he could see, were silent and deep in thought. No doubt they were questioning what gave their lives meaning.
Tony and Carmina agreed to meet again, next Thursday. This time it will be his turn to treat.
© Michael Maurer Smith 2009
Oh, my. I’m with Carmina on this one, but the words that struck me are Tony’s: “We make art because something seems missing in our lives—in our world—and we hope that by making art we can fill that void.”
Whether my writing qualifies as art is an open question. But, for our purposes here, I’ll call it art, and rephrase Tony’s words by saying, “I make art because life is so unbelievably full, so rich and complex and resonant, that I have to make art to do something with all of the surplus meaning that’s just lying around. There are people who don’t see the beauty of the world, and I want to use my words to give them a little whomp upside the head (as we say Down South) and say, ‘For Heaven’s sake, will you please just LOOK?’”
Now, this business about satisfaction – Tony’s words, again: “To be satisfied is to settle. It’s to accept less than the best and that is mediocrity.”
When I started varnishing, I had to learn the rule of “good enough”. There comes a point where nothing more is gained by working on.
If a varnished rail is perfect except for a single embedded gnat, you certainly can resand and varnish again to eliminate the gnat – but in the process you may gain a dusting of pollen, or a family of spider babies, or even drops from a sudden rain. If a rail glistens beautifully, has reflective depth and no brush strokes – STOP!
It’s good enough.
It works for writing, too. There always could be a better turn of phrase, a more elegant word, a funnier metaphor, but I always know when a piece is done and at that point, I’m satisfied – not because I’ve “settled for” something less, something mediocre, but because I’ve created from whole cloth a new bit of meaning or beauty in the world.
As for the practical utility of art – its meaning, or lack thereof – the longer the view of things, the better. A small example, here.
Some months ago I wrote a poem called “Search Pattern” after the death of Roger Stone in an offshore boating accident. I published it on my blog. Nine months later Roger’s widow found the poem through Google – her initial comment is there on the blog, beneath the poem. She also emailed, saying she was going to print it out in large scale, frame it and mount it in the room that would have been Roger’s study in their new home – the study he never got to use. As she said, “If I had found this before his service, I would have had you read it.”
Such occurences don’t happen daily, of course, but they happen with enough frequency that I’ve learned to take the long view, to be patient, and to always, always, do my best – for whoever is out there, waiting for the next thing I have to say.