Changing Perspectives
Aug 28 '01
The Bottom Line Age and responsibility change our view of the nature of art and the role of the artist in society.
As a youth, I looked at the arts as all youths should. They were to be wielded by the artist as a battering ram to break down all doors and level all obstacles that separated man from his fellow man, and man from the truth, regardless of the nature of that truth. Nothing was sacred, no rule inviolable. Obscenity was the injustice that we inflicted upon each other; not a dirty word or pornographic picture. Art was perceived as the necessary precursor to social progress and spiritual awareness. To accept restrictions on the artist was tantamount to abandoning the quest for understanding and our dreams for a better future. In other words…it was unthinkable.
But time changes our perspective. Energy and enthusiasm, if not idealism, wane with age. The youthful certainty of finding those universal healing truths that defined the springtime of our lives gives way to realism, if not fatalism, in our autumn. And so it is with me.
If you asked me, I’d tell you that my life is good.
It has a fullness and a purpose that was lacking in my youth.
I am a husband, lover, father, and friend. I am a manager, a mentor, a member, a novice writer, former soldier, fading athlete, and rabid fan.
Sometimes I am a leader; all too often a somewhat sheepish and willing follower.
A life of youthful altruism and hope has somehow evolved into middle age, middle class, and middle management.
I move through these roles effortlessly and seamlessly…automatically …catatonically.
My own happiness is more often defined as the absence of any great tragedy, rather than the feeling of any intense joy. Perhaps I am content with my life. But this contentment is precariously balanced on the razor thin edge of the status quo.
At what point did I lose my youthful idealism and wonder? When did I stop seeing the artists of this world as my surrogate eyes to the soul of mankind?
And most importantly, when did artists, once my trusted guides, become my greatest tormentors?
Now their voices mock and taunt me.
You see, I no longer wish to aspire…to anything. The realities of life have nudged my once cherished goals far beyond my reach. To have them thrust again before my cragged and weary face does not inspire me, but forces me to acknowledge my own failures and impotence.
Life is a series of choices. Each choice, initially perceived as beneficial, soon becomes a commitment or a duty. Each duty becomes another small stone or link of chain that eventually weighs you down and binds you in place. You become less an individual, and more a part of a fragile, intricately woven tapestry that is a family, a business, a community, a society.
Oh, there is some degree of satisfaction in the structure you have built. However, you soon realize with mixed emotions that you are the very foundation of that structure, and there you must remain…solid…unmoving…lest it all topple down.
And therein lies my dilemma.
I do not need or want someone to seduce me with beauty and splendor that I, with my middle class, proletarian ideals and humdrum responsibilities, can no longer hope to embrace.
Don’t show me other worlds, however exotic and alluring. I am a prisoner in my own world and the sentence is for life…at least what now substitutes for life.
Don’t ask me to change the direction of my life and tread on paths other than the one I have somehow stumbled upon. My path is comfortable, worn smooth by the trudging feet of the countless drones that walked before me. And though it leads nowhere I really want to go, it presents no danger or risk to anyone or anything I hold dear.
Don’t sing to me of your feelings of anger and alienation because the color of your skin or the emptiness of your pockets makes your very existence a social gaffe, if not a crime. Your shouted curses and threats, and your boorish youthful bravado fail to hide the immensity of your sadness and insecurity, and it would rend my soul if I were forced to honestly confront it.
My ears are not deaf to your pain and outrage. Decades of bearing witness to misery, misfortune, and unspeakable cruelty have not succeeded in hardening my heart. My own failure to make any appreciable difference while I had the energy of youth still tears at my conscience. But my sanity depends on your silence…or my denial.
If I am not totally happy with my state, at least I have become reconciled to it and have made my peace with it.
So, artist, do not torture me with what really is…or what could be…or should be.
Sculpt only the shapes familiar to my overburdened mind and weary eyes.
Sing in the joyless monotone that has become the rhythm of my life.
And paint with the muted colors that have become the palette of my tethered spirit.
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rich2003dm
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Location: New York City
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About Me:
I broke my pencil so I'm probably done here.
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