sometimes it feels as if you are at a starting gate, a jumping-off point, the very membrane between what is now and what is next.
sometimes it feels as if everything is hinging on that moment, that all you have been, all you have done, all the ways in which you have prepared are coming together – the confluence of it all.
sometimes it feels as if you are no longer in total control – as if you were at any time – and you are facing down something most giant, most pivotal, reaching this pinnacle from wherever you came, this place you have arrived.
sometimes – when you arrive at this place – the weight of which is enormous – you know you must take a deep breath, you must give over, you must trust all the dots that have connected you from before and through next and next and next to now, and, though you know not how it will all turn out, you must lay down every everything and somehow trust that the universe is rigged in your favor.
sometimes this place comes and the only thing to do is to get after it.
anna quindlen, in her book a short guide to a happy life, says this: “yogi berra’s advice seems as good as any – when you come to a fork in the road, take it.”
we have arrived. it doesn’t come with directions. no gps. no warranty. no guarantees. no table-of-contents-glossary-index-laden information booklet. nothing. just a choice. well, always a choice.
there’s something amusing about signage that points both ways. there aren’t a lot of things making me giggle right now. but, although we have passed this spot on the trailhead many times, this signpost made me giggle the other day. i am at a crossroads. we are at a crossroads. which way?
“…a dividing line between seeing the world in black and white and in technicolor.” (anna quindlen) i suppose the spectrum is meant to be seen in its entirety. all the colors. not a flattening out of the incandescence of life. i suppose it’s not as scary as it seems. i suppose luminous scrappy will rise up, face the signpost and decide.
it’s all fluid. we are all fragile seedlings bending in the wind. invisible forces, gravity, dark, lost-ness, steadfastness, weightlessness, light, found-ness buffet us and brace us, both. and we orient. we stand at the signpost on the trailhead and choose, knowing there will be another moment when we will choose yet again.
“and whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.” (max ehrmann)
either way. either direction. either path. i just start. we just start. again.
no instructions. no gps. no map. no paint-by-number numbers. no light-up-the-keys guidance. nothing.
from here to there. blank to image. silence to sound. from nothing to color, timbre, tone.
we begin with maybe a wisp of an idea, maybe something dancing in our mind’s eye, something teasing us, encouraging us, perhaps goading us, “start it.” artists choose whether or not to follow the spur.
i know there are times i don’t listen. i ignore the sweet pining of the piano, a soft, nagging voice from the studio. sometimes it is just impossible. impossible to answer. instead, scoffing at the mere suggestion, i walk the other way. i find something that seems more constructive, that has a tangible reward, that doesn’t necessarily feed my heart but where i can actually see what effect finishing “it” has. it’s a product of a culture that does not financially reward artistry. despite an immediate synchronized turn to the arts for comfort in times of struggle and need, when you google “how hard is it to make a living as an artist?” this is what you find:
“Making a living as an artist is hard to do. Making art is hard to do. There are lots of limitations. But limitation is an important tool in the creative process so you can use the fact that it’s hard to your advantage.”
riiiight.
i have a very few experiences painting. the times i chose to paint were absolute – a call and a response. i had no second guesses, no real concern for the finished product, no worry about how these pieces of art – outside of my own medium – would support me.
i suspect my piano was insanely jealous…there i was, in the basement, wildly throwing paint, when all it asked me to do was stand by its side and “start”. there i was, in the basement, feeling, when all it asked me to do was breathe all i felt through it once again. there i was, in the basement making art, while it sat silently imploring me to make art.
i can hear it calling. i know i’ll someday listen. but first. first i must see the wisp of meaning.
an underpainting is raw. an authentic beginning, an authentic step in heading to a “finished” product. often i am the one who asks david to stop…stop here. there is something that speaks to me from the canvas of underpaintings. something that says, “look. i am here. i am not perfect. i am not done. but i exist.”
maybe it’s the connection to real life, to humanness – the not-done-ness, the not-perfect-ness, the here-existence – that appeals to me.
it is a suggestion of completeness, but not yet really measurable or judgeable. it is a tendency toward finished, but not contrived or overly-intended. it is a step in the direction of a painting that an artist deems done, but a step, a ‘done’, we each see through our own eyes.
it is a parallel of life. a start. a blank canvas. raw color. authentic steps. imperfect. not done. but here.
often on sunday mornings, when we get to the offertory slot, jim, the guitar player in the band, and i will look at each other and one of us will make a letter shape with our hands to denote a key…the key of a piece we will improvise on as we go. and then we are off and running. although it is often me (with the piano as my music-making-instrument) either one of us drives the piece. jim loves minor keys – they are so emotional – so he is in his glory if we pick something minor. no matter what, we don’t know where it’s going before we start. but there’s a moment we both feel that it is jelling and we take turns leading and yielding, surprised by the direction and the story, so to speak.
the path forward is like that, i suppose. you don’t quite know until you start. and sometimes, it takes you by surprise. just when you think you have it figured out, the key changes. you lead, you yield, you take a chance not knowing. and sometimes, it comes out alright. especially if it’s in a minor key.
we sit for hours, plotting, scheduling, designing products, writing, working out technology quirks (or not.) somewhere in the middle of 8-10 hours, we will look at each other, glazed. “coffee!” we chorus. we move into the kitchen, maybe outside if it is warm and if that spot on the deck where we lean against the house is sunny. (it’s only april – it could still snow, so the outdoor furniture is not yet in place.) just a little moving around helps and then we are back working.
but at the end of the day – that’s a different story. we are tired, but we have to move. we have to walk. anywhere. around the hood, along the lake, out in the county in the woods. it’s amazing how much more energy i have after hiking a few miles. moving begets moving.
i’m thinking that’s true in many ways. learning begets learning. opening our minds begets, yes, more opening of our minds. faith begets faith. working out begets more working out. it’s the starting that makes it all happen. don’t wait. move.
reverse threading 