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