I met the writer D A Adams for coffee this afternoon on his way through town. We have been friends for half our lives, having met in a poetry workshop in college. He's one of those lifelong friends that whenever we meet the time and distance immediately fade. Our intense conversations always leave me transformed and questioning. Coffee turned into 4 hours without either of us noticing. Of him I can say many things, but suffice to say he is a gentleman and a professional. His writing transcends genre and speaks to me personally and profoundly about the human condition.
Today also begins the unfortunate anniversary of the birth, short life, and death of another close friend's child. The mother's blog and Facebook posts are often gut-wrenching and brutally real in a way that makes them extremely difficult to read and nearly impossible to respond to. Years after, the pain remains ever-present for them, and while one tries to be good friend, there comes a point of realizing there's nothing one can do. I'll never feel what they feel; at least I hope with every fibre of my being that I will not, and this by its very acknowledgement creates a chasm so vast that there is only blackness and the seeming hollowness of kindness to offer. I feel for them and I think of Ellie through the years and I wish they did not feel alone in their pain and that I could somehow reach through it.
The black paintings are about our humanity. Seeing and interpreting the last day of Christ within the context of epic poetry, epic story, made me appreciate it anew. I'm still not religious, nor will I ever be again, but the story speaks to me. When I saw my first crude efforts I immediately understood how heavy the works will eventually be. Even those 2 paintings hit me like a Mack truck to the chest; but they were not what I wanted, so I destroyed them. Whatever spiritual or transformative paintings I may or may not have painted to-date are nothing compared to these. These are something else entirely. I see it in my head and I cannot rest. They will not leave me alone.
So maybe the pain I cannot find the strength to speak to in the case of my friends' child is somehow a part of this. Maybe the eternal conversation between good friends is more than the simple act of reunion and is, instead, a regenerative spiritual process; a rebirth. Our inadequate distinctions between joy and agony seem to only limit a true experience of either. Those moments when we allow ourselves to feel deeply and without limits are the moments when our souls awaken from the horrific slumber of daily life. So I celebrate the writings of a grieving mother even as I sometimes recoil from them. I embrace the unending love and connection of a friend as I am aware we may not see each other for months or even years. Our feelings are somehow better when they are inappropriately laid bare, and naked, and present, because we dilute them in our everyday grind. And on those same lines if art (or Art) doesn't somehow connect with and engage that, then it is not, nor can it ever be art. It is, to paraphrase the prophet, an empty sound; like cheap tin.
No comments:
Post a Comment