on art and tolstoy
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| Brac Island, Croatia |
The impulses and the feelings and the self conscious sub conscious selfish jargon that undercut this particular journey.
And I’ve been desperately seeking the meaning. The lesson behind it all. Something to take away. To wrap up into one pretty Instagram caption. And all I’m left with is more questions. And now I’m not sure it’s necessary to put meaning behind the questions.
And maybe that’s the biggest lesson of all. To leave it a question. to leave it be. To let it be a work in progress. A work in promise…until one day, it’s a work of art. Is that not what art is?
Because Dubrovnik was built between the 7th and the 17th century. And Rome? 1,229 years from it’s founding to it’s collapse. And the folks pounding the marble and stacking brick on top of single brick? They had no idea what their work would eventually behold. And they were holding onto a feeble promise of the future generation. That they would continue their great responsibility. And transform their work in progress into a work of art. And there was no guarantee and there was no satisfaction of completion. Rather it was just slow growth in those ugly, embarrassing, beginning stages. Those first drafts you’d rather die than show to anyone, let alone own up to. Because here’s the thing. They couldn’t possibly know what their work would become. They couldn’t reconcile their dedication with the promise of some successful outcome. Because in their lifetime, there simply wouldn’t be one. Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all.
And like the Romans, or the Croatian knights (I imagine them as knights), this is also the “reality of the artist,” as told by Mark Rothko. In some writings he crafted long before he reached critical acclaim, Rothko outlined the philosophies of art. What makes it great, and what makes it flat out risky. The part that stands out to me the most is that these musings - from a man who would become greatly renowned and respected, were written at least a decade before his best known paintings were discovered. He also, curiously, never made the manuscript public in his lifetime (it wasn’t discovered until three years after his death). A puzzling act that his son (the next generation) had an answer for:
“Even as he feared the public, he desperately needed them to bring meaning to his paintings. [And yet] even after he had received significant adulation, he still feared, constantly, that his painting would be misunderstood and ultimately violated by an uncaring public.”
An artist stuck in his patterns. In his head. Seeking meaning. Wanting to be seen. To be understood. Fearing failure, or worse: lacking a legacy. Not making an impact (Are these his insecurities, or mine?) Are these an artist’s fears, or a human’s?) — all while dutifully creating without a guarantee that he would amount to anything in his lifetime? A work in progress. A work toward art. Maybe that is the art.
And if Tolstoy is right, if
“Art is a human activity consisting in this, that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are infected by these feelings and also experience them." — then maybe all our lives are canvases. And the way we live them, the way we pass them onto others, the way we impact lives through our actions and feelings, and signs (whether we’re there to see it or not), maybe that is what makes us artists.
So when you’re struggling to see clearly who you are? When you encounter parts of yourself you don’t like so much? parts you'd much rather hide? or ignore? push down deep so you don't have to reveal them or face them? so that you're not found out? Maybe that’s okay too. And maybe rather than reject them, or defend them, or laugh them off, we can show them. Own them. Brightly and with humility. Bearing them earnestly. Because maybe others feel it too. The struggle. The wanting to be seen and understood. The shame that comes with realizing you may not be what you project out into the world. And when people really feel the things you feel as you express them, maybe that transmutes them into something good somehow. Lessons learned. slowly. curiously. eventually.
And I’ve been desperately seeking the meaning. The lesson behind it all. Something to take away. To wrap up into one pretty Instagram caption. And all I’m left with is more questions. And now I’m not sure it’s necessary to put meaning behind the questions.
And maybe that’s the biggest lesson of all. To leave it a question. to leave it be. To let it be a work in progress. A work in promise…until one day, it’s a work of art. Is that not what art is?
Because Dubrovnik was built between the 7th and the 17th century. And Rome? 1,229 years from it’s founding to it’s collapse. And the folks pounding the marble and stacking brick on top of single brick? They had no idea what their work would eventually behold. And they were holding onto a feeble promise of the future generation. That they would continue their great responsibility. And transform their work in progress into a work of art. And there was no guarantee and there was no satisfaction of completion. Rather it was just slow growth in those ugly, embarrassing, beginning stages. Those first drafts you’d rather die than show to anyone, let alone own up to. Because here’s the thing. They couldn’t possibly know what their work would become. They couldn’t reconcile their dedication with the promise of some successful outcome. Because in their lifetime, there simply wouldn’t be one. Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all.
And like the Romans, or the Croatian knights (I imagine them as knights), this is also the “reality of the artist,” as told by Mark Rothko. In some writings he crafted long before he reached critical acclaim, Rothko outlined the philosophies of art. What makes it great, and what makes it flat out risky. The part that stands out to me the most is that these musings - from a man who would become greatly renowned and respected, were written at least a decade before his best known paintings were discovered. He also, curiously, never made the manuscript public in his lifetime (it wasn’t discovered until three years after his death). A puzzling act that his son (the next generation) had an answer for:
“Even as he feared the public, he desperately needed them to bring meaning to his paintings. [And yet] even after he had received significant adulation, he still feared, constantly, that his painting would be misunderstood and ultimately violated by an uncaring public.”
An artist stuck in his patterns. In his head. Seeking meaning. Wanting to be seen. To be understood. Fearing failure, or worse: lacking a legacy. Not making an impact (Are these his insecurities, or mine?) Are these an artist’s fears, or a human’s?) — all while dutifully creating without a guarantee that he would amount to anything in his lifetime? A work in progress. A work toward art. Maybe that is the art.
And if Tolstoy is right, if
“Art is a human activity consisting in this, that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are infected by these feelings and also experience them." — then maybe all our lives are canvases. And the way we live them, the way we pass them onto others, the way we impact lives through our actions and feelings, and signs (whether we’re there to see it or not), maybe that is what makes us artists.
So when you’re struggling to see clearly who you are? When you encounter parts of yourself you don’t like so much? parts you'd much rather hide? or ignore? push down deep so you don't have to reveal them or face them? so that you're not found out? Maybe that’s okay too. And maybe rather than reject them, or defend them, or laugh them off, we can show them. Own them. Brightly and with humility. Bearing them earnestly. Because maybe others feel it too. The struggle. The wanting to be seen and understood. The shame that comes with realizing you may not be what you project out into the world. And when people really feel the things you feel as you express them, maybe that transmutes them into something good somehow. Lessons learned. slowly. curiously. eventually.
And so what if we were simply okay with being a work in progress? What if we showed up boldly? Healed out loud? Had the courage not to curate every aspect of our lives? While slowly, devoutly, humbly, showing up each day to place that brick by single brick. Without knowing what it will amount to. Without worrying about it, or judging it, or questioning it. Just like the Romans. Or the knights. Or Tolstoy, or Rothko, or any other human in history - take your pick.
Maybe the art is the humanity. Messy. Unfinished. Inconsistent. Maybe that makes it beautiful.
Leo Tolstoy asked a question in his twenties, that I see echoed in so many twenty-somethings centuries later (read: all of us?). “What am I destined for? Only time will tell.”
May we be okay with not knowing (and maybe never knowing) while continuing to pursue the good. to find the sun, to stack the bricks, to transmute the dark parts. To live, and let the rest
be.
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