The Flute

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find a web-based version of this story, but I did stumble upon a digitized copy of my source book, so if you're really interested you can read any of the Japanese stories I'm reading here. Something about having a rare story in printed form sitting on my bedside table makes me very happy, but of course I'm always happier to share. In fact, this thought leads me quite fluidly in to the topic I have in mind. You see, I'm a bit of a pack rat, and believe strongly in the emotional resonance of physical objects. I recognize that material belongings are nothing compared to real human interactions, of course, but I also see them as being very palpable mementos of such interactions after they have occurred and especially when those people aren't close to me anymore.

Today's story (yesterday's too - I like it very much and was too tired last night to write about it, so I read it twice) is about the most heartbreaking kind of loss, the loss of a child. Once again, this story features no traditional western happy ending, and I am starting to see that its meaning is all the more palpable for being more realistic. What is most powerful for me is the fact that the bereaved father ends the story with nothing but his memories and a single gift from his child: the eponymous flute. One of my favorite parts of fairy tales is the vivid images they can call forth of people, places, strange events, and simple objects imbued with profound magic. The reason this particular image touches me so is that it is by such tokens that I often recall the people I love the most and who are not with me right now. I have not lost many loved ones to death, thankfully, but I have lost many to physical distance and simply a necessary parting of ways. Unfortunately, such is the nature of my work with children and my habit of forming close friendships with people who are planning on studying abroad. I don't think I would survive their absence from my life, permanent or temporary, without the little tokens of their presence in my daily lives. CDs we listened to together, books they bought me, drawings they made for me, toys found in coat pockets from last winter... the list goes on. My home and my studio are both filled with these objects, and though some people see it as mess or clutter, I can't live without it.

It is with this realization, I think, that my art began to change in a major way earlier this year. Understanding how important physical objects were to me, I came to realize that I was merely collecting, never giving away. Certainly, different people have different ways of remembering their loved ones, but how could I feel truly happy creating artwork that I felt embarrassed or uncomfortable giving freely to other people? Of course, I'll always make some art for myself, but I realized, after taking some good, long looks at the kind of art I was making, that I was making virtually nothing for other people. If my goal as an artist was to communicate, I needed to think much more about the people with whom I wanted to communicate. And, tacky as it may sound, I feel a lot better about my artwork when my mother tells me how much she thinks my grandma would like my drawing than when some visiting art critic likes the narrative in my six-foot painting.

Labors of Love

Lately I have been evaluating the amount of effort I place on various activities in my life. Painting, drawing, writing, knitting, reading, and so on. There is a notion that is often discussed in the art studio about need, about whether one needs to be in the studio, or needs to be making a certain kind of work. For a time I felt obligated by my surroundings to produce a certain kind of work, but I now see that something was lacking in that effort. What was lacking was not exactly need, but something closer to love. I did not love the work I was creating, I did not love myself for making it, and I was not making it for someone I loved. I was making work for the wrong people, and communicating the wrong things with the wrong audience.

Love is something that is worth a lot of effort. Fatigue and exhaustion should not and do not matter when the work is done for love. Time is never lost, but always well-spent, when it reinforces one's bond of love with another person. It took me a long time to realize it, but when I paint it is often not with love in mind. When I painted narratives I did not love the image. I loved the story, but it was not the story I was painting. When I create portraits, I love the people I am drawing or painting. When I create still-lives, I love the objects I am drawing or painting. When I knit something for my friend, I love the person I am creating for, and I put that love in the object I'm creating. When I'm working without love, I can stop whenever I want. With love, it doesn't matter how long it takes, or how weary it makes me, because I don't stop until I'm done.