On Sunday evening just over a week ago, we had an Art Night at my church. I loved seeing the paintings and sketches, listening to songs and poems and fiction, and watching the artists speak passionately about their talents and passions that mean so much to them. And it got me thinking about pain and art.
One of the artists was explaining her (chalk, I think it was) drawing of a mother cuddling a newborn... in the painting it looks as if she is whispering her baby girl to sleep. She explained that the art was done at the request of a friend whose baby was born sleeping.
When she said "born sleeping," my stomach gave a momentary lurch; I had never heard the euphemism before but could guess what it meant. She went on to give more details about the piece, and someone asked, "Was the baby okay?"
"No." The artist spoke quickly. "She was not okay."
I started thinking about why the artist's friend wanted the drawing, exactly. Surely not just to remember what must have been one of the most painful days of her life, which could have been done with a photograph. It wasn't necessarily to express herself because she wasn't the one painting it. But she wanted a piece of art about it.
And then I realized how many of the other pieces of art dealt with pain, with the times in our lives that are "not okay." One person sang a song she had written about her struggle to deal with her own shortcomings. Another read a poem expressing the shame and sadness she felt after speaking harshly to her son. Another shared an excerpt from her novel manuscript, a story (based in her own life) about two sisters with a rough past.
So I started wondering to myself why so much of art deals with pain. It deals with hurt and ugliness and experiences people would rather forget. Artists are driven to create pieces based in wounds, and even those who don't express themselves artistically often desire to see their pain reflected in pieces of art. When people could turn to God or therapy or talk it out or walk away and forget it, why do so many of us have the impulse to create or see something created that has to do with our bad experience? Why does art offer more healing of our torments and afflictions than simple understanding? It's more than just expression... if that was the case we could just (prose) write or talk it out.
I have some ideas about why this is, but I was just curious what any readers out there think, and I wanted to get your ideas to help me reconsider and process mine. What connects art and pain? Why are we driven to create about things that are not okay?
Maybe I'm overthinking it, but I'd still love to hear any thoughts you have about it... I'll post my own thoughts later on.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Childhood Memories vs. Grown-Up Realities
I went to New Mexico March 1st-7th. My mom bought an airline ticket for me for my birthday, since she was going to visit family, and we took Alexandra. We had a great time; I hadn't been there since my great-grandmother died nine years ago.
It's interesting going back to some place you haven't been to since you were a kid. It makes you realize how much of memory and reality and even how you feel about things are based in childhood experiences. For example...
We spent most of the time in Las Cruces proper, at Mrs. Naul's house and at my grandma's house. (My mom lived with Mrs. Naul when she was in college, and Mrs. Naul had a huge impact on my mom's life and spiritual growth.) Since I am now an adult and was able to do some of the driving, I got to know parts of the city I had never really seen before. But I didn't quite feel like I had "gone home" until I got to see my mom's dad and stepmom. I realized it's because as a kid, most of the time I spent in Las Cruces was spent at their house, which was actually outside the city. It was on a large piece of property that included a rose garden and small orchard at the front and a junkyard at the back, since my grandpa was an appliance repair man and a collector of pieces and miscellany (<--these are what the thesaurus is giving me as nicer-sounding ways to say junk). With all that room and a variety of old broken-down cars, trailers, washing machines/dryers/refrigerators to play around (and in the case of the cars, in), it was a kid's paradise.
That's where I spent many Christmases and a few other holidays. That's where I played with my brothers and cousins and built statues out of old appliance parts. That's where my grandma made us countless delicious meals and desserts. That's where I spent time in the wind and dust and intense sunshine. And since technically my grandparents lived in Las Cruces, that's what I always thought of when I thought of Las Cruces.
So it was weird going back and discovering that most of Las Cruces isn't at all the image that I held in my mind for so long. And going back as an adult with my mom also reminded me that she has an entirely different image of the city. She grew up in the city; since she lived there in college, Mrs. Naul's house is like going home for her. My grandpa and step-grandma didn't get married until she was an adult, so their house isn't going home for her.
This is probably super obvious for anyone outside the family, but it was weird being confronted with the difference between my childhood idea of Las Cruces and what reality is.
It's interesting going back to some place you haven't been to since you were a kid. It makes you realize how much of memory and reality and even how you feel about things are based in childhood experiences. For example...
We spent most of the time in Las Cruces proper, at Mrs. Naul's house and at my grandma's house. (My mom lived with Mrs. Naul when she was in college, and Mrs. Naul had a huge impact on my mom's life and spiritual growth.) Since I am now an adult and was able to do some of the driving, I got to know parts of the city I had never really seen before. But I didn't quite feel like I had "gone home" until I got to see my mom's dad and stepmom. I realized it's because as a kid, most of the time I spent in Las Cruces was spent at their house, which was actually outside the city. It was on a large piece of property that included a rose garden and small orchard at the front and a junkyard at the back, since my grandpa was an appliance repair man and a collector of pieces and miscellany (<--these are what the thesaurus is giving me as nicer-sounding ways to say junk). With all that room and a variety of old broken-down cars, trailers, washing machines/dryers/refrigerators to play around (and in the case of the cars, in), it was a kid's paradise.
That's where I spent many Christmases and a few other holidays. That's where I played with my brothers and cousins and built statues out of old appliance parts. That's where my grandma made us countless delicious meals and desserts. That's where I spent time in the wind and dust and intense sunshine. And since technically my grandparents lived in Las Cruces, that's what I always thought of when I thought of Las Cruces.
So it was weird going back and discovering that most of Las Cruces isn't at all the image that I held in my mind for so long. And going back as an adult with my mom also reminded me that she has an entirely different image of the city. She grew up in the city; since she lived there in college, Mrs. Naul's house is like going home for her. My grandpa and step-grandma didn't get married until she was an adult, so their house isn't going home for her.
This is probably super obvious for anyone outside the family, but it was weird being confronted with the difference between my childhood idea of Las Cruces and what reality is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)