this was something i posted on a fine arts forum a while back, in a discussion about content in contemporary art. coming across it accidentally today, i concluded that i have become less coherent on the subject, not more, in the years since i wrote it - and so i stand aside for my younger, and more articulate, self:
"i'm tempted to get on my very high horse (legs a mile long) and declaim that far too much work today (whether artist-led, in a gallery, or elsewhere) seems to have little content - or perhaps, very little experiencing, feeling, exploring and risking, in it. but that kind of sweeping statement, whilst expressing my own frustration at the superficial bandwagonnism i currently perceive, isn't really very useful, since i'm sure it could've been said at any time over the last several centuries. it's entirely subjective: which is where i'm coming from, all the time and unapologetically. in other words, my reference points are personal and, like a mile-high horse, probably somewhat shaky when they come to be trotted out.
however... genuineness; authenticity: these concepts are useful currency of the imagination, because for some reason (perhaps a similar impulse to the religious one) we want to relate to art at more than eye-level. is this something to do with allowing ourselves to be caught up, and transported? something to do with venturing beyond the confinements and sufferings of mortality?
at any rate, we must surely be distrustful of anything that is trying to take us for a ride, for dubious purposes of its own. i think that there is something in us (at least, in many of us) which is searching for more than superficial answers. something which is looking to be met, to be answered (though what is the question?) and to be transported. the kind of art which has little to offer but a cynical take on modern life is not art but social commentary - interesting at that level, perhaps, but in terms of the search for meaning quite meaningless. meaning of course is another word which rests on personal interpretation, so i'm not even going to try to explain what i mean by meaning. maybe all i can say about it is that a work with meaning doesn't leave one feeling hollow and unengaged.
the moment one starts to investigate such things as genuineness, integrity, authenticity, one begins to flounder in subjectivity. these concepts cannot survive outside the story we are telling ourselves about being real. no concept means more than it can deliver in terms of reality - and there's another impossible statement! (yet take the road this points to, and it becomes the journey.)
so, is an artist genuine because their intention is genuine; fake because their intention is fake? is an artist someone who is simply that much better than others at being life's representative? its hands and voice and eyes? is an artist someone with a philosophy to peddle, an angle to grind? an obsessive driven by the need to define and recall? ah - the questions are so much more interesting than whatever answers get thrown at them that we should really be trying to ask better questions and dismissing the answers as no more than temporary, disposable containers.
as for the freedom to create... there's another imponderable to ponder. but my own response would be: nobody else, and no circumstances, ever give you the freedom to create. you take it upon yourself to be creative, and do it because you must - and if what you make then finds its way into the world, well, so be it. but if it doesn't, it isn't any the less for that. no gallery, no marketplace, no critic, no establishment, no expedient demand, no lucrative commission, no benign patron, can bestow the freedom to create; nor can any of these forbid it. we must take that on ourselves, and if we fail to recognise our creativity, we risk living lives devoid of meaning - which is a much greater tragedy than failing to be successful in worldly terms."
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
THE BLUE POETRY ANIMAL
i've just opened a new blog for my poems, called the blue poetry animal
i shall be adding poems regularly to this blog, rather than putting them on 'A Quiet Life'.
http://bluepoetryanimal.blogspot.com/
http://bluepoetryanimal.blogspot.com/
Saturday, 2 October 2010
LIFE IS A WOBBLE BOARD
now and then one does the right thing for the right reason... last week i bought a 'wobble board'.
my wobble board is a sturdy, strong disc, 40 cm in diameter: flat above and tapering conically to 10 cm below - see the picture. when placed on the floor, it rests (and pivots) on its central apex; the whole thing is strong enough to take the weight of two of me.
its purpose is to develop the body's ability to balance. i like to think my balance is quite good, but my knees and ankles need strengthening and i've always hated going for walks. sadly, because i'd rather like it - i don't have a private skateboard park: if i did, i'd certainly get a skateboard.
but happily i had an Amazon gift voucher, so i decided to treat myself. my wobble board duly arrived, and took up what i now know to be its destined position: on the kitchen floor next to the sideboard where i make tea.
in time i hope to be able to make a cup of tea - and drink it - whilst balancing on my wobble board. at the moment i can just about stand on the thing for a few minutes without falling off. i have progressed from holding on for dear life to the edge of the sideboard, to nonchalently standing on the board with my hands clasped behind my back - all in three days! balancing on the board is just difficult enough to be an interesting challenge, but (like the best jigsaw puzzles) not so difficult that one gives up immediately.
until now the jigsaw puzzle has been one of my favourite metaphors for life, but the wobble board is emerging as an even better one. 'life is a wobble board...' (time to print the t-shirt.)
one of the first things i realised about being on a wobble board was: it's ok to wobble. this may seem absurdly obvious, until you realise that your ambition is to be able to stand perfectly still; which is not what happens - most of the time. just like life, a wobble one way leads to a compensating wobble the other way - and when you take into account the circular and pivoting nature of the wobble board (and life) wobbles can go every which way, and do.
so (exactly like life) it's not so much a matter of keeping still as of accepting the truly dynamic nature of staying in one place. and yet... there was a moment yesterday when something different happened. i was lurching about, enjoying the wild ride, when... i suddenly folded into somewhere entirely present, and the wobble board came to rest... and there i was: upright, balanced, and perfectly still.
so (exactly like life) it's not so much a matter of keeping still as of accepting the truly dynamic nature of staying in one place. and yet... there was a moment yesterday when something different happened. i was lurching about, enjoying the wild ride, when... i suddenly folded into somewhere entirely present, and the wobble board came to rest... and there i was: upright, balanced, and perfectly still.
as soon as i thought about what was happening, i began lurching about again; but i could clearly recall that what came before that transcendent stillness was an instant of complete acceptance of the nature of the ride. i understood now why i'd bought the wobble board.
it wasn't to develop the strength in my knees and ankles. it was to locate the pivotal moment where everything comes to rest; balance is the key. instinctively i knew i wanted to learn something about being present; it had to be a whole-body experience, and it had to be something i hadn't done before. i find it very pleasing that a wobble board is circular: that the ride isn't linear but involves movement in all directions.
if i use that memory of perfect balance and stillness as a future objective... it won't happen again. it can only happen as a dynamic progression from movement to stillness; chaos to order. true to that process, and like a kid learning to ride a bike, i find that my body magically knows how to stay aloft.
... and it's ok to wobble - in fact it's essential.
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Updating the Past
Eight days after I posted my last entry here, my father died. So... life changed, as it does when a parent dies, and I have since been trying to become familiar with the geography of this new landscape.
For ten years I was my dad's carer - though for only five and a half years of that did I actually care for him in his own home. But throughout the last decade he has been my central focus, my sole responsibility, and looking after him has been (any carer would identify with this) both tremendously difficult, and very rewarding. But being a carer is a tough call, and it comes without a handbook. You learn by doing, and you hope that your learning doesn't come at your loved-one's expense - but inevitably it does. This is where the guilt lingers, afterwards. All the things you got wrong: because of inexperience, because of self-protectiveness, because of exhaustion and depression, and sometimes because the system seemed to be stacked against you.
I really thought that, once it was all over, I would feel liberated and be able to return to the self I'd once been. Being a carer grinds you down - eroding your sense of self like nothing else, whilst replacing it with something initially unwelcome yet ultimately valuable. I wrongly imagined that this 'carer self' was a temporary me, one I could shed after my father had died (and he was in his nineties, so there was always the sense that this end might come at any time). But of course what happens is that any fundamental experience changes you forever. I was a self-reliant, self-serving, artist long before I became a carer. Now, like nested Russian dolls, my innermost core is still the painter, but accumulations since have added matronly layers of responsibility and compassion. I don't feel liberated; I feel as if I've been made redundant from a job which took many years to learn. As an ex-carer I feel, too, as if I've lost a social identity - one which many people seemed to find more acceptable than my identity as an artist.
In time I may sense that the whole experience has added to my sense of self; not stolen, as I feel at the moment, ten years of my life and turned me into something I never wished to be. That pessimistic reckoning is because grief is still uppermost. Grief which swoops like a predatory bird, out of nowhere. Grief which breaks like a huge devouring wave: all the cliches are true. But grief has its own rhythms, and it's becoming apparent to me that this time is, in its own way, a process of labour: of giving birth to whatever - whoever - comes next.
Meanwhile I find it hard to reassess myself as being out of the loop: not needed any longer; not consulted - for as a carer, you are not only where the buck stops, you are what the buck crashes into: the buffers at the end of the line. I was the advocate for my father; his nurse; his housekeeper; his cook; his provider; his financial organiser; his ally - and only, right at the very end of the list, his daughter. From the moment I stepped into the breach and tried to take the weight of his life on my shoulders, I ceased to be his child in all but name.
A very old and ill parent becomes the child; this is so much a truism it hardly bears repeating. What is not mentioned is that a child-parent relationship which becomes a carer-parent relationship is as hard for the parent as it is for the carer. Though it may seem the carer gives up so much - freedom of movement, freedom of choice, even the freedom not to care - this is always against a background of the many more profound losses experienced by the parent, losses which bite at every level: physical, social, intellectual, emotional. This, much more than the physical drudgery, is what makes caring for an elderly parent so grindingly difficult and heartbreaking. If one takes on the job out of love, it is love which suffers and is, in the end, either transformed or ground away to nothing.
But even now, long before I am ready to bring the whole picture into focus, I know that being a carer added a dimension to me which was missing. As simple as it sounds, it taught me to care... I observe with the painful clarity of hindsight how careless I was; how easily I shucked off responsibility; how little I knew of real suffering. But unless we find out by doing, we learn nothing of our limits when it comes to looking after those who are helpless and desperate. I truly never wanted to go there but I did go there, in good heart, and only kicking and struggling a little. From the fog of its aftermath, I would like to tell all those other carers trying to survive their own difficult undertaking, this one thing: refuse to let love be the casualty of caring. Getting that one thing right matters more than anything else. And if you hold onto the love, eventually it will be that love which remains behind to mend you and give you solace.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
The Interview
(I am a painter. People often ask me 'what kind of painting' I do. So I interviewed myself to find out...)
Q: What is your work about?
A: It's difficult to describe. I suppose all my painting is self-referential. On an impersonal level, it’s an exploration into the difficult business of being human.
Q: What medium do you work in?
A: Mostly in oil paint, on canvas. The way I work, I discard far more than I retain, so I need a forgiving sort of medium. Oil paint is very forgiving, and I love its subtleties too, and the different finishes; the delicacy or the roughness of the surface. I use other tools as well as brushes: rags, sharp implements to score the surface, cotton buds, rollers, cardboard, paper etc. The process is embedded in the work, not only in its textures but in the ghostly presence of images which have been painted out and lost. I imagine all the lost figures, particularly, inhabiting a kind of subterranean layer: continuing to affect the painting invisibly but powerfully.
Q: Do you see the elements which you've painted out as mistakes?
A: No. My paintings often go through radical changes, because I don’t plan ahead: I evolve as they evolve. There may be fruitless cul de sacs, and you could call these mistakes, but I see them as unavoidable detours: sometimes the only way to provide the information the painting needs. My intellect may call them wrong turnings and wasted time, but the painting is assembling itself in a way my intellect can’t grasp. This process is very instinctual, it isn’t something to be manipulated - you just have to follow and keep up, and trust the part of you which can see round corners. As much as possible I try to put my thoughts on hold. It’s taking me a lifetime to learn to work in this way - my ego would much rather be in charge, come up with something guaranteed to get me approval. But for me that’s not what painting’s about. Ideally, I’d like to disappear and allow my work to speak for itself.
Q: Yet you said earlier that your work is self-referential. Doesn’t that mean that it's about you, your personal concerns?
A: Well, it is self-referential – but I am using myself, perhaps even dramatising myself, as a kind of Everyperson: a universal human; so my own issues are not really what my work is about. They supply the raw material, but I’m using them in a dispassionate way, turning them into an impersonal narrative. Although it's actually a more unconscious undertaking than this suggests.
Q: Do you work quickly or slowly?
A: I work quite slowly and, because oil paint dries slowly, I always have several paintings on the go at once, and work on them in rotation. When a painting is drying but not finished, I might catch sight of it in passing and make unexpected and usually useful connections. When I come back to that painting I then have some extra information. Working on several paintings in rotation can mean they reflect a shared theme – although this isn't something I impose. I don't set out to paint anything in particular - if I try to, the painting ends up as something entirely different! But if I work in a semi-conscious, non-directional way, certain themes gradually come to the surface.
Q: Can you describe any of these themes?
A: I’m reluctant to be specific about anything current, because putting a painting into words while it's still happening stops it developing. It's like dreaming. You don't want to wake up and interpret the dream before it's finished. However, I can say that recently a bound and dormant figure, clearly in a pupating state, has appeared in a number of paintings. I’m just following this wherever it takes me.
Q: How do you interpret this 'pupating figure'?
A: There are obvious ways of looking at it, but I prefer to leave my interpretation in flux. Anyway, what the figure means to me, the many different things it means to me, won't necessarily be what it means to anyone else. There is no absolute meaning - or if there is, the painting has died. If you're asking what my intentions are in painting a pupating figure, I could connect this figure to what's going on in my own life, but I'm much more interested in the universality of life, especially the large experiences like death and transformation. To explore these enormous things you have to immerse yourself; you have to permit yourself to be lost. And because of that, you can't tidy everything up and stick labels on it, you can't pretend to be in charge, and to have grasped all the implications. Many of my paintings are ambiguous because I don't yet understand what's going on, but it’s exactly that fluid ambiguity which excites me. I try to keep the painting in an unresolved state for as long as possible. The best paintings are never wholly resolved, but leave room for doubt.
Q: You've emphasised that you paint intuitively. How does that work in practice?
A: I think there's a part of me which leads the process, and that part operates outside the frame, as it were - it goes beyond what I consciously know. I have to trust it completely. It's necessary to be on the alert all the time for nudges from this intuitive part of myself. My conscious mind might want to emphasise something in the painting, point it up a bit, because I'm proud of having achieved a certain effect, a bit of painterly cleverness; and then the intuitive part has me paint it out altogether - and it always turns out to be the right thing to do. Sacrificing that element propels the painting towards something I couldn't have anticipated consciously. There can be a lot of resistance in me to ditching something I've spent weeks, even months, painting. But however good an image is, however well realised, if it doesn't resonate with the rest of the painting then it's holding everything back. Painting is a very ruthless process!
Q: Is it important to you that others see your work?
A: I suppose so, though it depends on the person. An intelligent observer will always add something to the work by engaging with it - even if they say nothing at all. If they are painters, hopefully my work will ignite their enthusiasm and inspire their own work. But even if nobody ever saw my paintings, I would still continue to work. I'm driven to do so. And along with age has come this much greater emotional investment. I'm aware that I might have no more than a couple of decades left to paint - if I'm lucky, and can keep on working to the end. But I'm also enjoying it so much more: painting seems as miraculous to me now as it did when I was five years old! It seems amazing that I can make marks, and those marks will persist and outlast me. They may be all I leave behind.
Q: What would you say to yourself, if you were just starting out again?
A: I’d say what several people said to me when I was young – don’t get sidetracked. Choose your medium, and if it’s painting then don’t write, don’t perform, don’t do anything else at all - even if you can. Make painting your only focus and it will have power. But of course I ignored them! I wanted to try everything. Every kind of creativity. I was very prolific, too. Now I use fewer creative outlets, but I work more intensively, and with a wider understanding of what really matters to me.
Q: Where might you be now, if you'd taken their advice and not got sidetracked into different media?
A: I suppose I might have had more years to develop as a painter. But instead I think I developed as a person. It’s always a balancing act - but it gave me a lot of satisfaction at the time, to put my energies into other forms of expression. I've come to regard everything I do as one continuing work, really. My writing and painting, even my photography, are just its different voices.
Q: Would you like to be commercially successful?
A: No, I don't think so. I'm sure the disadvantages would outweigh the advantages: Unless you’re very strong, even obsessed, the pressure of others’ opinions must affect the way you work. Often the most successful artists are those who can negotiate a place for themselves in the world. But they aren’t necessarily the best artists. To be that, you have to retain a kind of innocence; and you need to be someone who responds to a much deeper call than the need for worldly success.
Q: So a painter should be self-reliant, self-directing?
A: To a large extent, I think so, yes. Painting is an alchemical process, and it can’t happen in full view – it needs privacy, enclosure, to develop. It takes so long for a painter to nurture their vision into something with substance. You need solitude and a huge amount of patience. For me, it’s a very precarious process: one which can be capsized easily by the wrong kind of attention.
Q: What would be the wrong kind of attention?
A: Something which feels like intrusion. Someone coming out with an interpretation before I'm ready to see the painting in that way. Someone giving technical advice, which would feel like they're trying to take over. Or if someone says they like one painting more than another: that can be quite damaging. I'm very thin-skinned! Ideally I prefer to have finished a painting before I let anyone else see it. But I do allow a few people, those I really trust, into the studio to see what's going on. It's rare, but it happens!
Q: Finally, how do you think you might be remembered?
A: I suppose as someone very creative, but perhaps too reclusive for her own good! But I'd like my work to be remembered, not me.
Q: What is your work about?
A: It's difficult to describe. I suppose all my painting is self-referential. On an impersonal level, it’s an exploration into the difficult business of being human.
Q: What medium do you work in?
A: Mostly in oil paint, on canvas. The way I work, I discard far more than I retain, so I need a forgiving sort of medium. Oil paint is very forgiving, and I love its subtleties too, and the different finishes; the delicacy or the roughness of the surface. I use other tools as well as brushes: rags, sharp implements to score the surface, cotton buds, rollers, cardboard, paper etc. The process is embedded in the work, not only in its textures but in the ghostly presence of images which have been painted out and lost. I imagine all the lost figures, particularly, inhabiting a kind of subterranean layer: continuing to affect the painting invisibly but powerfully.
Q: Do you see the elements which you've painted out as mistakes?
A: No. My paintings often go through radical changes, because I don’t plan ahead: I evolve as they evolve. There may be fruitless cul de sacs, and you could call these mistakes, but I see them as unavoidable detours: sometimes the only way to provide the information the painting needs. My intellect may call them wrong turnings and wasted time, but the painting is assembling itself in a way my intellect can’t grasp. This process is very instinctual, it isn’t something to be manipulated - you just have to follow and keep up, and trust the part of you which can see round corners. As much as possible I try to put my thoughts on hold. It’s taking me a lifetime to learn to work in this way - my ego would much rather be in charge, come up with something guaranteed to get me approval. But for me that’s not what painting’s about. Ideally, I’d like to disappear and allow my work to speak for itself.
Q: Yet you said earlier that your work is self-referential. Doesn’t that mean that it's about you, your personal concerns?
A: Well, it is self-referential – but I am using myself, perhaps even dramatising myself, as a kind of Everyperson: a universal human; so my own issues are not really what my work is about. They supply the raw material, but I’m using them in a dispassionate way, turning them into an impersonal narrative. Although it's actually a more unconscious undertaking than this suggests.
Q: Do you work quickly or slowly?
A: I work quite slowly and, because oil paint dries slowly, I always have several paintings on the go at once, and work on them in rotation. When a painting is drying but not finished, I might catch sight of it in passing and make unexpected and usually useful connections. When I come back to that painting I then have some extra information. Working on several paintings in rotation can mean they reflect a shared theme – although this isn't something I impose. I don't set out to paint anything in particular - if I try to, the painting ends up as something entirely different! But if I work in a semi-conscious, non-directional way, certain themes gradually come to the surface.
Q: Can you describe any of these themes?
A: I’m reluctant to be specific about anything current, because putting a painting into words while it's still happening stops it developing. It's like dreaming. You don't want to wake up and interpret the dream before it's finished. However, I can say that recently a bound and dormant figure, clearly in a pupating state, has appeared in a number of paintings. I’m just following this wherever it takes me.
Q: How do you interpret this 'pupating figure'?
A: There are obvious ways of looking at it, but I prefer to leave my interpretation in flux. Anyway, what the figure means to me, the many different things it means to me, won't necessarily be what it means to anyone else. There is no absolute meaning - or if there is, the painting has died. If you're asking what my intentions are in painting a pupating figure, I could connect this figure to what's going on in my own life, but I'm much more interested in the universality of life, especially the large experiences like death and transformation. To explore these enormous things you have to immerse yourself; you have to permit yourself to be lost. And because of that, you can't tidy everything up and stick labels on it, you can't pretend to be in charge, and to have grasped all the implications. Many of my paintings are ambiguous because I don't yet understand what's going on, but it’s exactly that fluid ambiguity which excites me. I try to keep the painting in an unresolved state for as long as possible. The best paintings are never wholly resolved, but leave room for doubt.
Q: You've emphasised that you paint intuitively. How does that work in practice?
A: I think there's a part of me which leads the process, and that part operates outside the frame, as it were - it goes beyond what I consciously know. I have to trust it completely. It's necessary to be on the alert all the time for nudges from this intuitive part of myself. My conscious mind might want to emphasise something in the painting, point it up a bit, because I'm proud of having achieved a certain effect, a bit of painterly cleverness; and then the intuitive part has me paint it out altogether - and it always turns out to be the right thing to do. Sacrificing that element propels the painting towards something I couldn't have anticipated consciously. There can be a lot of resistance in me to ditching something I've spent weeks, even months, painting. But however good an image is, however well realised, if it doesn't resonate with the rest of the painting then it's holding everything back. Painting is a very ruthless process!
Q: Is it important to you that others see your work?
A: I suppose so, though it depends on the person. An intelligent observer will always add something to the work by engaging with it - even if they say nothing at all. If they are painters, hopefully my work will ignite their enthusiasm and inspire their own work. But even if nobody ever saw my paintings, I would still continue to work. I'm driven to do so. And along with age has come this much greater emotional investment. I'm aware that I might have no more than a couple of decades left to paint - if I'm lucky, and can keep on working to the end. But I'm also enjoying it so much more: painting seems as miraculous to me now as it did when I was five years old! It seems amazing that I can make marks, and those marks will persist and outlast me. They may be all I leave behind.
Q: What would you say to yourself, if you were just starting out again?
A: I’d say what several people said to me when I was young – don’t get sidetracked. Choose your medium, and if it’s painting then don’t write, don’t perform, don’t do anything else at all - even if you can. Make painting your only focus and it will have power. But of course I ignored them! I wanted to try everything. Every kind of creativity. I was very prolific, too. Now I use fewer creative outlets, but I work more intensively, and with a wider understanding of what really matters to me.
Q: Where might you be now, if you'd taken their advice and not got sidetracked into different media?
A: I suppose I might have had more years to develop as a painter. But instead I think I developed as a person. It’s always a balancing act - but it gave me a lot of satisfaction at the time, to put my energies into other forms of expression. I've come to regard everything I do as one continuing work, really. My writing and painting, even my photography, are just its different voices.
Q: Would you like to be commercially successful?
A: No, I don't think so. I'm sure the disadvantages would outweigh the advantages: Unless you’re very strong, even obsessed, the pressure of others’ opinions must affect the way you work. Often the most successful artists are those who can negotiate a place for themselves in the world. But they aren’t necessarily the best artists. To be that, you have to retain a kind of innocence; and you need to be someone who responds to a much deeper call than the need for worldly success.
Q: So a painter should be self-reliant, self-directing?
A: To a large extent, I think so, yes. Painting is an alchemical process, and it can’t happen in full view – it needs privacy, enclosure, to develop. It takes so long for a painter to nurture their vision into something with substance. You need solitude and a huge amount of patience. For me, it’s a very precarious process: one which can be capsized easily by the wrong kind of attention.
Q: What would be the wrong kind of attention?
A: Something which feels like intrusion. Someone coming out with an interpretation before I'm ready to see the painting in that way. Someone giving technical advice, which would feel like they're trying to take over. Or if someone says they like one painting more than another: that can be quite damaging. I'm very thin-skinned! Ideally I prefer to have finished a painting before I let anyone else see it. But I do allow a few people, those I really trust, into the studio to see what's going on. It's rare, but it happens!
Q: Finally, how do you think you might be remembered?
A: I suppose as someone very creative, but perhaps too reclusive for her own good! But I'd like my work to be remembered, not me.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
THE PERILOUS QUESTION
I wrote this seven years ago. It still seems relevant now. It is about illusion and passion and the danger of asking the Perilous Question.
Last night I had a dream in which I was giving a talk to a roomful of people. We sat together on the floor, almost in darkness. I felt vaguely discomfited at being the one chosen to speak: I was among people whose perceptions were at least as acute as mine.
I began to talk about the way I used to feel when I first came here: to Glastonbury, a place of visions and enchantment - before the wine soured. Then someone in the room interrupted me. I found it very hard to make out what she was saying. There was chattering and laughing in the room beyond. I asked her to repeat her words, and she did, and again I could make out nothing. At last I understood her. She was saying that enchantment was not the same as passion. I replied that I was coming to that, but I hadn't been. My theme had been dualistic: enchantment versus disenchantment. She had placed passion beyond both. How was it connected?
There was a small window set high in the wall. Framed by it I saw something I assumed was the sun; but such a pale, wintry sun, such a feeble disc. Then everything turned around - I knew it wasn't the sun but the full moon. Not a weak sun but a strong moon. I woke up saying this, greatly moved, not knowing why I was moved, why it should matter.
Not knowing, also, whether to interpret this dream as encouragement or warning. Perhaps it was both. On the brink of a long overdue disenchantment I hesitate to abandon ways which have sustained me for so long. But how to wake up? Why not sleep on, and wait for an obliging Prince to battle through the briars? Yet his kiss would only wake me from one dream into another. The beauty that sleeps within demands much more: it has a feral nature - its proper place is beyond the bounds. The Prince, thrown down from Rapunzel's tower, wanders blind in the wilderness for three years before he is fit to be reunited with her. The Beast languishes unseen and castle-bound until the wilderness grows up inside his walls. Only then can his beauty return to him. Even within walls, passion can flourish, but only if the wilderness has got there first.
"Oh I've been faithful to the wall. I haven't left its side at all. Only, when my heart grew sore, I traced the outline of a door." Lines from a recent song, despite my belief that my songwriting belongs back in the enchanted time. I used to sing my heart out. Now my heart is walled up, waiting. For the door to become more distinct? The wilderness lies beyond that door - and with it a part of myself that seeks reunion. Beauty roams the moonlit moors, calling to Heathcliff in the storm's voice.
It seems time to ask the Perilous Question. Perilous because illusion is dispelled.
The Perilous Question is "What purpose does this serve?"
It has always been the root question. "What's this all about?" The question expands us beyond any safe context. It dangerously reveals that where we stand is always at an edge. The question itself could well take us over the edge.
As a painter I make form, set limits, work within the four straight sides of my canvas. I enclose, define and create a self-consistent world. A world of deliberate illusion that seems more enduring, less subject to brokenness, bleeding and decay, than 'reality'. I welcome the limited context. Within that playful space I can widen the bounds just enough to discover - and demonstrate - something new. Yet I must allow the wilderness in, or what I do is without passion. I do so by not knowing where to begin, not knowing what I'm doing, and not knowing where I'm going. In my work there is wilderness enough. In my heart?
The Fool comes to an enchanted castle where everyone seems to know what's going on except him. At last - not at first - he asks the bleeding, broken King, "What's the matter?" Why are you, who matters, wounded? Why is matter always wounded? Why is the true Fool, whatever perilous leap into the unknown he takes, never wounded? Why is it the Ruler, who draws the line at going beyond the bounds, who tries to keep the four walls of reason standing, the one who in the end is lying there in his own blood? Attempting to make things matter, to redeem this impossible mystery of existence, the King has been felled. Only a Fool would ask why.
The Perilous Question dissolves make-believe and opens the way for redemption. Rapunzel at last finds the blind Prince and washes his eyes with her tears. Clarity dissolves the enchantment veiling the Prince's sight. Beauty eventually kisses the Beast without repugnance. A beauty deeper than appearances dispels the self-disgust that disfigures him. The Fool finally asks the King, "What's this all for? Who benefits?" The Fool's uncompromising question resolves the enchantment that holds the wasted land in thrall. Attention, exploration, curiosity, are necessary solvents: the Prince's blindness, the Beast's delusion, the Fisher King's impotence - all such suffering goes untransformed if it remains unrecognised.
In the dream I was reminded that passion isn't the same as enchantment, that it doesn't belong in the same place. Passion, colour of King's blood, comes at a price. The Perilous Question, which delves beneath appearances, is not intended to substitute one enchantment for another. Its power is to move the action forward, out of bounds - into the wilderness, where anything can happen. The wilderness and the wasteland are not at all the same. In the enchanted wasteland the possibilities have almost been exhausted. Passion's growing ground is among tumbled walls and broken illusions - the debris of disenchantment. With passion, the wilderness can become fruitful.
Now I measure my progress by the moments when I have been Fool enough to ask the Perilous Question. When tears have renewed my vision, when compassion has healed my self-hatred, and when I have knelt beside my own broken King and raged at such profound woundedness, which seems perpetual and inescapable in us all. "Why must it be this way? What purpose does it serve?"
And felt the question rock the ground under my feet, dissolve the make-believe and bare the moonlit illusion - where I had supposed there to be reality and sunshine.
Last night I had a dream in which I was giving a talk to a roomful of people. We sat together on the floor, almost in darkness. I felt vaguely discomfited at being the one chosen to speak: I was among people whose perceptions were at least as acute as mine.
I began to talk about the way I used to feel when I first came here: to Glastonbury, a place of visions and enchantment - before the wine soured. Then someone in the room interrupted me. I found it very hard to make out what she was saying. There was chattering and laughing in the room beyond. I asked her to repeat her words, and she did, and again I could make out nothing. At last I understood her. She was saying that enchantment was not the same as passion. I replied that I was coming to that, but I hadn't been. My theme had been dualistic: enchantment versus disenchantment. She had placed passion beyond both. How was it connected?
There was a small window set high in the wall. Framed by it I saw something I assumed was the sun; but such a pale, wintry sun, such a feeble disc. Then everything turned around - I knew it wasn't the sun but the full moon. Not a weak sun but a strong moon. I woke up saying this, greatly moved, not knowing why I was moved, why it should matter.
Not knowing, also, whether to interpret this dream as encouragement or warning. Perhaps it was both. On the brink of a long overdue disenchantment I hesitate to abandon ways which have sustained me for so long. But how to wake up? Why not sleep on, and wait for an obliging Prince to battle through the briars? Yet his kiss would only wake me from one dream into another. The beauty that sleeps within demands much more: it has a feral nature - its proper place is beyond the bounds. The Prince, thrown down from Rapunzel's tower, wanders blind in the wilderness for three years before he is fit to be reunited with her. The Beast languishes unseen and castle-bound until the wilderness grows up inside his walls. Only then can his beauty return to him. Even within walls, passion can flourish, but only if the wilderness has got there first.
"Oh I've been faithful to the wall. I haven't left its side at all. Only, when my heart grew sore, I traced the outline of a door." Lines from a recent song, despite my belief that my songwriting belongs back in the enchanted time. I used to sing my heart out. Now my heart is walled up, waiting. For the door to become more distinct? The wilderness lies beyond that door - and with it a part of myself that seeks reunion. Beauty roams the moonlit moors, calling to Heathcliff in the storm's voice.
It seems time to ask the Perilous Question. Perilous because illusion is dispelled.
The Perilous Question is "What purpose does this serve?"
It has always been the root question. "What's this all about?" The question expands us beyond any safe context. It dangerously reveals that where we stand is always at an edge. The question itself could well take us over the edge.
As a painter I make form, set limits, work within the four straight sides of my canvas. I enclose, define and create a self-consistent world. A world of deliberate illusion that seems more enduring, less subject to brokenness, bleeding and decay, than 'reality'. I welcome the limited context. Within that playful space I can widen the bounds just enough to discover - and demonstrate - something new. Yet I must allow the wilderness in, or what I do is without passion. I do so by not knowing where to begin, not knowing what I'm doing, and not knowing where I'm going. In my work there is wilderness enough. In my heart?
The Fool comes to an enchanted castle where everyone seems to know what's going on except him. At last - not at first - he asks the bleeding, broken King, "What's the matter?" Why are you, who matters, wounded? Why is matter always wounded? Why is the true Fool, whatever perilous leap into the unknown he takes, never wounded? Why is it the Ruler, who draws the line at going beyond the bounds, who tries to keep the four walls of reason standing, the one who in the end is lying there in his own blood? Attempting to make things matter, to redeem this impossible mystery of existence, the King has been felled. Only a Fool would ask why.
The Perilous Question dissolves make-believe and opens the way for redemption. Rapunzel at last finds the blind Prince and washes his eyes with her tears. Clarity dissolves the enchantment veiling the Prince's sight. Beauty eventually kisses the Beast without repugnance. A beauty deeper than appearances dispels the self-disgust that disfigures him. The Fool finally asks the King, "What's this all for? Who benefits?" The Fool's uncompromising question resolves the enchantment that holds the wasted land in thrall. Attention, exploration, curiosity, are necessary solvents: the Prince's blindness, the Beast's delusion, the Fisher King's impotence - all such suffering goes untransformed if it remains unrecognised.
In the dream I was reminded that passion isn't the same as enchantment, that it doesn't belong in the same place. Passion, colour of King's blood, comes at a price. The Perilous Question, which delves beneath appearances, is not intended to substitute one enchantment for another. Its power is to move the action forward, out of bounds - into the wilderness, where anything can happen. The wilderness and the wasteland are not at all the same. In the enchanted wasteland the possibilities have almost been exhausted. Passion's growing ground is among tumbled walls and broken illusions - the debris of disenchantment. With passion, the wilderness can become fruitful.
Now I measure my progress by the moments when I have been Fool enough to ask the Perilous Question. When tears have renewed my vision, when compassion has healed my self-hatred, and when I have knelt beside my own broken King and raged at such profound woundedness, which seems perpetual and inescapable in us all. "Why must it be this way? What purpose does it serve?"
And felt the question rock the ground under my feet, dissolve the make-believe and bare the moonlit illusion - where I had supposed there to be reality and sunshine.
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