jeudi 9 avril 2020

Hooking the singing fish of time

One of my favorite things about art is connecting your ear more closely to your mouth, yet over greater time spans. The link may even be a roundabout way of defining art. When you are inexperienced, you see or hear or taste or touch something you like, and you know that you can't make the same. This may upset or excite you; it could encourage you or push you away, spur you on or sap your energy. Your reaction could be any of an endless number of combinations of these facets, and it'll change over time.

But, at the critical core, with practice you slowly, slowly begin to realize something. Whatever you can perceive and appreciate—you eventually begin to feel this is true—you can express the same quality yourself. The fact of your appreciation begins to seem a potential for the same acuity, subtleness, emotional power, whatever it is. This takes quite a long time and piles of hard work, and for much of it you will believe what I've just said is untrue.

A wondrous artist can draw on ancient influences, ones maybe from childhood or a lazy day-trip to a local museum, influences whose sources may rest entirely forgotten, and reproduce the same kind of effect without duplicating the original expression. And what makes the artist truly great is that the artist's "mouth" will still be finding influences a century or five later. Do you see what I mean? Art is a strong connection between ear and mouth over very large distances in space and time.

You can make that connection. You can strengthen it. Many things are mysterious, including the dizzying multitude of potentials in expression and art, but that fact isn't. That fact is as stable as the big rock you lie on for a windy view of a valley.