Can i write while listening to music - do i need your permission¿ Is expressing oneself with the written word while listening to a rhythm any different than feeling one’s heart or hearing a car horn while talking¿ Is it the equivalent of a guru introducing an obnoxious character into an ashram simply to provoke greater focus for the aspirants. Can it be the same for the act of giving¿ I’d read once that you give the gift you’d want yourself; i’d also read the best gift one can make is of one’s time. This makes sense, for from what little i possess, time is what i give away most reluctantly. This creates conflict for me in any number of ways - higher wisdom dictates service to others as a common sense solution to much of what ails our world. What is it to be of service - like the gift one desires, do i leave others alone¿ When i see misery, i strongly want to relieve that suffering. Are compassion and time intertwined¿ It seems to be that way on the faces of aged i’ve had the pleasure to spend time with. However, none of these abstruse considerations include the material props modern media cajoles its thralls, either to own, or give away in testimony to one’s prosperity. I am an unrepentant anti-consumer renegade. My resistance is not for lack of appreciation of fine cloth, food or music; but in repulsion from the transparent greed of those flogging pale imitations of fineness; while reducing the noble independent human spirit to that of a grasping, selfish angry wraith.
My parents were both teachers - one of English the other of Art. This happenstance of birth is a gift i’ve spent much of my life trying to share. However to date the closest i’ve gotten to my ambition is a more profound appreciation for the abundance of lessons involved in such a pursuit. You cannot share that which another has no interest, anymore than something can be taken from you for which you have no interest. So how to be generous in a world supremely occupied with the business of acquisition and ceaseless trumpeting of hard bought booty¿ Lao Tzu - “Simplicity, patience, compassion - these are your greatest treasures.” Of all that i’ve ever come into possession, these three qualities of mind have been the most difficult to gain, yet the most easily given away - if for no other reason than the pleasure they seem to bring as gifts - a fucking paradox - ain’t life grand. The cultivation of these 3 treasures has brought me closer to my original ambition for the sharing of my creative heritage, albeit without much resemblance to the initial concept. Like the gift to oneself, i’ve found it is enough that i practice my passion without attachment to the results.
Early dreams of conquest and acclaim have given way to an intractable pull toward some unknown outcome. Although the future for me has been reduced to a hazy outline, this writing effort for a more personal understanding of what it is to give stands in high relief. Why is that¿ I have learned very few people are interested in what you might think they need, but may find common ground when they hear you share something you are searching for. I am searching for how to give, and it is confusing. I recently saw an interview with an Australian Bushman who explained there are no words for “please” and “thank you” in his native tongue because sharing is an accepted feature of his culture, however he was referring to material objects. What of our digital isolation and the illusion of being connected without presence¿ What i am giving is contained in my mind’s eye of you scratching your head asking yourself WTF¿ That barely seems substantial - like a monologue in an empty room, yet there must be a reason you’ve taken your time to read this far¿ Based on life experience, i’m fairly certain that i’m not the only human being on a planet of 7 billion searching for ways to give, so we have common ground.
In Bali the method of instruction for the very young is to take the child’s hand and go through the motion; by self disclosure of my own difficulties it may be possible that someone reading will be encouraged to puzzle through to an unknown solution using language. If however, the reader is sampling another’s work for reasons of self aggrandizement as i myself have done, you may be reading facile pychobabble devoid of sense. Nor is a leap into writing for one’s pleasure necessarily an honest one. It may be that my repressed selfishness toward others drives this sanctimonious declaration of innocence and vacuous mea culpa¿ i don’t know . . . I know i’m not alone, nor are you. It was the prospect of losing fun in the creative process where i’ve found sanctuary. For example, just now googoling “art and literature” to further expand an emerging idea, when what rose to the top of the heap was a Wikipedia article on the Economics of Art and Literature : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Economics_of_the_arts_and_literature. This is how the internet has become an instrument of indoctrination for the purpose of defining value. By any measure of market value, i’m a dismal failure. For the longest time, i was inoculated from this harsh truth by conceit until i realized - my work is just that, mine.
Minus the confusion of competition upon which art industrialization has piked the collective creative genius of hu[wo]manity, i still very much want to share what i’ve created, because i like it. However, if as an artist you are not giving yourself the gift you’d want most yourself - the thrill of carving into one’s greatest fears; exalting the most delusional fantasies, or plumbing the depths of one’s most most debased infirmities; instead kowtowing to acclaim or financial incentive - who’d fucking want to do that¿ Is it an irony that each of the categories for personal exploration above has a correspondent new release, be that xbox, ipad, cnn, darkweb or senate hearing¿ Or have i placed myself in a “painter’s corner of logic by having chased a dialectic for giving without a safety net. Do i give fuck¿ As it happens, i do. But the fear i’ve carved out here is my own and not designed to inflame yours; any exaltation from this effort is mine alone knowing i did my best and it’s possible, even likely, one other person will have read it, which may be delusional; and without completely gutting myself for public spectacle, i’ve made an honest effort to be vulnerable which unfortunately i still consider an infirmity. The joy however remains from taking my most precious resource time and attempting to construct something out of nothing - the gift of meaning, or lack thereof.
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take - the sonnet
A young man i know kept my unbrella
i lent him to keep rain from his mother.
At first mad, like he saw my weak aura,
later saddened by his offense to her.
I write to learn more about this event
but find only a cave roaring inside
“not here, go back to your own fucking tent.”
?you took my shelter and left me outside¿
Nonsense - the sky’s immense - we are all wet,
and getting wetter; if our water’s owned
it means, when we are born we assume debt.
same as thinking kindness can be loaned.
tomorrow i draw; like this time i take
to search for some meaning in what i make
jts 051317
http://stoneartist.com
reprinted with permission - all rights reserved
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