I have been taking a course at the University of Maine on
creative concept development. In this
highly political and charged times, it seems appropriate to ignore CNN and
consider the definition of art. In Art
as Experience, John Dewy, a philosopher of aesthetics who gave the first
William James Lecture at Harvard, makes the distinction between an object of
art (a painting, a statue, a film, an installation) and the work of art. He says that the work of art is active and
experiential whereas the art object is physical and potential. This spoke to me in the sense that the course
has inspired me to the work of art even if the products I produce are not
necessarily objects of art in the sense that I would put them on a wall and
offer them for sale. The exception is my
poetry, which I have written throughout my life as my own reflective exercises
in the sense recommended by Rita Charon for physician self-practice. However, the course has convinced me to put
my poetry on display as art objects whatever that means. Not, however, necessarily my drawings and
paintings; regardless of how much I enjoy making them.
Dewey uses metaphors from physics to define a work of
art. He talks about the force of an
object, which is interesting in that I had learned that objects have mass, but
force is work done on an object. Force
is a vector, a verb, and not a thing. He
talks about energies issuing from experience which also seems odd, for it seems
to me that it is energy that we experience and that moves through us, upon us,
and around us. He talks about mutual
affinities and antagonisms working “together to bring about a substance that
develops cumulatively and surely (but not too steadily) toward a fulfilling of
impulsions and tensions (pp. 168-169).” That metaphor just didn’t work for me.
For me, the act of making art is a way of exploring my world through means that
are otherwise hard for me to access.
Poetry, for example, can capture a situation far more astutely and
completely sometimes than prose. A
painting or a drawing can communicate an experience beyond the capacity of
words. However, the making of art is the
making of a relationship. It is a
relationship between some of my internal characters with each other and with
(sometimes) external beings (if we can ever understand the boundary between
internal and external). The visual arts
in North America are a means of recording and communicating experiences without
words. When I communicate my experience
to you, you have an experience. The
force lies in the communication and not necessarily in the object of art. It’s a cultural artifact that people buy and
sell these artifacts of communication, whether they be visual or verbal or
otherwise. We have constructed an entity
which calls itself the art world in which people participate and decide what
objects will be called art and bought and sold and what objects will be
ordinary and valueless. This is
different from my reflective communication through whatever media of my experience
in the world (including other dimensions).
Dewey says that the work of art is perception, and to this,
I would add communication and reflection.
I recently asked a client who had been traumatized by the experience of
two policemen coming to her door to serve her a subpoena to draw the
scene. She wanted to know why. So you can fully experience it, I said. “You
talk around it in a way that avoids integrating it into your life. If you draw it, you will enter into it in a
way that you understand it better.” I
showed her some drawings from William Kentridge, the South African artist, that
are dark, done in black and white and grays with thick lines and an intensity
that grabs one. “These are what I
imagine your scene with the police to be,” I said, “though you may represent
them quite differently.”
It’s also odd to me that her first response when invited to
participate in an experience is to ask why.
Despite what I said above, I don’t fully know why. I know that drawing evokes new perspectives
and emotions for me than talking about an experience or writing about an
experience. I see it differently in the
visual mode. I can’t predict what the
difference will be until I do the drawing.
I do understand that the various media in which we can represent and
dialogue with our experiences and the beings, internal and external, who
constitute our non-local selves give us different perspectives depending upon
the media. Since I have begun drawing
and painting again, after a hiatus of many years in which I believed I was not
sufficiently talented to be allowed to draw and pain, I have been noticing the
details of the world differently. In
England, I drew sheep (which are everywhere).
I began to notice subtle details about their ears and the angles that
their ears can form. I began to notice
the length of their legs compared to the height of their bodies. My perception
had changed. I also began to experience
how different the world that we see is from the world of the drawing we render. A relationship exists clearly, but it is not
a one-to-one correspondence. The world
in the drawing is never the same as the world we see.
Dewey uses the metaphor of rhythm to take us deeper into the
experience of perception that is a work of art.
Hee says that art depends upon and is grounded in the rhythms of
nature. He says that rhythms are “the
conditions of form in experience and hence of expression (p. 169).” He says that these rhythms become esthetic
when the become a rhythm in experience itself. In this I didn’t really follow
her. Aesthetic philosophy can be dense
and probably, to give credit to Wittgenstein, could be spoken more
plainly. We could just say that we call
something an esthetic experience when we have a powerful communication with it,
when it evokes emotions and meanings within us.
We probably don’t need the metaphors of physics to understand this,
however fun they are to us.
Here is my poem. It was a response to her saying that
non-art is a situation in which all the individual parts are floating in chaos
and confusion because they are not integrated into a whole. I tried to describe
that poetically but ended with a whole.
So, I disagree that it is possible for parts to be separate from the
whole.
The lamp floats above the wing of the plane and it’s all
random where things go or stay and the man’s hands shake as he pours his coffee
for perhaps he didn’t realize the separateness of it all especially the
coffee. It’s all coffee. Coffee is
curiosity, tension, years of cultivation, the nemesis of Andrew Weil who
thought it was evil. What would have happened had he found this exotic bean
that could be brewed to awaken people in the mornings to their full senses and to
participation in the world though I have stopped drinking coffee after the
morning realizing that it’s water I need to stay awake and not stimulants in
the coffee variety. Eyes float above the
coffee. People forget them as they rush to their jobs and their appointments
leaving their eyes briefly cruising above the newspaper but how will they find
their way to their trains subways trams taxis ubers lyfts and footpaths without
their eyes which seem so crucial to urban navigation but that’s what happens
when you’re in a hurry and can’t be bothered. As for myself I see the parts of
the plane floating in the sky the jet engine the fuselage the cockpit the nose
of the plane the wheels and the hydraulic brakes all those things that become a
unified whole when appreciated as a plane but individually they’re just so many
components. I have been the same height
for many years but I remember my acquaintances as taller. By the light of the
sun and the moon everyone is intimidating me even those who have no right to
make such a claim. I am seeking peacefulness in my daily interactions yet the
parts of the room keep floating off and the tables go one way and the chairs
another and the chalkboard starts to rise spilling the chalk on the floor and
the coffee is rising. Kindness seems to
come with a price. Love comes with
ultimatums anger is our dominant emotion flowing forth like lava from an
Hawaiian volcano in this moment now the floating parts of the airplane don’t
frighten me as they once did. I no
longer fear walking down the floating jetway to the separated fuselage which
has departed from its engines. The anger has left the boarding process though
the eyes are still there security cameras operative scanning the crowd the
pilots and the flight attendants flitting past the waiting crowd and it’s all
so scattered. This world was not gentle to my father. But if only he had had
the good fortune to meet me it might have mattered for us to converse. Our
conversation might have made him softer. The airplane would not tremble in
separate disconnected parts as it now does. The oxygen masks would have dropped
down much later into the flight. The parts would come together into a smooth
flight and visit.
-
Or not.
The separation
Of all the parts
From the whole
Does not make
It real beyond
The illusions of
Your white picket
Fence mind
That boxes us into
Definitions like
-
What is art?
Blind epistemology is causing your philosophy to rot
Because you hide behind the language of the smart
I’m begging. I’m pleading. Why can’t you see that art is the people.
Art will resist ever effort to define it, will persist like
the Berlin Wall
Which fell 30 years ago but remains a part of global
consciousness.
Art is that which pierces the darkness with morning light
Art is the fleeting moments of ecstasy amidst the constancy
of despair
Art is the clarity that overcomes our sight
In the dawn in the dusk in the twilight in the moonlight.
Art is your last breath and the compromise you make in that
moment
Art is the sunset as your soul rises amidst the chaos of the
world
Please
don’t die a slave to philosophy.
A desperate unfinished poem sent to the God of Art when I
was 17 and didn’t know that he was out on the town banging Persephone.
Art spends what should be a childhood
Pushing it forward into womanhood
So that it can be conceived and born again
Bearing the pain of childbirth to recover itself
Art is a man who can’t bear to watch its rebirth
The one who hides in the corner while the women
Do their work and when all is said and done
Art is called the weaker sex
Irony
In
deference to science.
There has been a dead bird lying flattened in defeat on the
corner of college avenue and bathhurst where the street care stops. Many days have gone by and how many people
have passed it wondering how it died and thinking someone should really clean
up that bird but it shouldn’t be me and it should be some unnamed part of City
Government such as the department of cleaning dead birds off the street,
whereas I wonder why I haven’t been the one to remove the remains of that bird,
at least into the bushes of the funeral parlor or the Anglican Church down the
block or perhaps into the gutter or the sewer but I have not stooped so low and
I have not sullied my hands to do the deed and I have breathed away the
guilt as any good yoghini for
That bird is art.