Art

Sorry friends, this isn’t a story about something my husband, Art, has been up to.

A teenage girl was given a homework assignment to interview artists with a specific list of questions. Her teacher said to choose a ‘traditional’ artist, and then someone who others might not think of as an artist. She called me today and asked me if she could interview me, as she thinks writers are artists. Well, of course I said yes, and was very flattered.

Let me tell you, she asked some hard questions. Like, ‘what is art’, and ‘is art vital to society’. But oddly, the one that stumped me and had me floundering for a few moments was this: ‘how do you make art’.

From the writing standpoint this could almost be a variation on the cliché question of ‘where do your ideas come from’. But it’s not. Or at least, it wasn’t to me. At first I said that I don’t ‘make’ art, that it’s more like stories come from somewhere ‘out there’ and flow through the writer. Which sounded too out there for the conversation.

Then I realized that what hung me up on the question was the word ‘make’. Is anyone surprised that a writer would get hung up on a single word? Well, what made that word difficult for me was that it implied ownership. That I had some sort of right to art, or control over it. Yes, of course, the artist has a measure of control over their work. But stories don’t belong to me. Which is why we write, to share them, to free them, to let others hear them. (And I sure can’t make them do what I want…)

So in that sense, I don’t think you can make art.

She also asked me what I got from art. That was an easy one to answer. Freedom. Complete, total freedom. To create any world I want to be in, to create people I want to spend time with, or even create people who scare me. To change a story with an ending that didn’t give me what I wanted, or to create an ending where none existed. To answer questions and ask questions.

A final question was if one medium of art impacted another. That one, too, was easy. Music has always impacted my writing and always will.

But I keep going back to that one question. How do you make art?

How do you answer that?

Nature as art

Nature as art

Comments

My last post was about a writing prompt, asking me to write a love song to my body. I dared readers to take up the prompt and respond, and my sister did. Her response is within the comments of that post, and I wanted to pull it out and make it more visible. This sister has always been very gentle about prodding me along in life. Here’s her writing prompt response.

I love my body
This I can say
It took 60 years
To feel this way

I could not love
the strong young body
That lifted the car
Off of my Daddy

I would ingest poisons
Between my babies
In my twenties
My body kept on loving me

I love my body
That hugged cancer
Until it left
Stronger than the malignancy

I love the way
My body forgives
And lets me try
Again and again

My body is my dearest home
Housing my rocking mind
And aging bones
I love you body

What a wonderful prompt and powerful way to say good night. Thank you giver of prompts and dear sister for the challenge.

Writing Prompt

I signed up to receive writing prompts from my friend, Lisa, and I confess I’ve been doing the easy ones. She just sent me an impossible one. When I read the prompt I immediately shut down and headed for the delete button. But then I thought a moment. How would I answer that? What would I write, if it is something that immediately throws such a wall up? Talk about the ultimate writing challenge. I thought there was absolutely no way to answer her prompt, to come up with anything. That made me realize I had to try.

What was the horrible prompt?

She asked us to write a love song to our bodies.

Stifle that immediate, uncomfortable emotional response you just had. Set that aside, and pause a moment.

Could you answer that?

I figured out a way to answer it, I challenged myself to write something, and it’s nowhere near what was probably intended by the prompt. I know it’s going to upset those family and friends who read this, but keep in mind that this is my honest response to myself, right or wrong, healthy or not.  And, hey, it also made me laugh when I wrote the first line. Laughter is always a good thing.

What would be your honest response? Could you be honest? Give it a try. I dare you.

Here’s my writing prompt response, my love song to my body.

It could be worse.

 The red hair could be redder. The freckles could be frecklier. The weight could be heavier. The reflection, the view of my mother, could be clearer.

 The anger could be fury, The hurt could be betrayal. The loss could be permanent. The sense of not getting ahead could be falling behind.

 Who I see might become what others see. They might quit filtering me through a lens of personality.

 A love song like this becomes an exercise in pity.

But, it could be worse.

Son, me, husband, facing the sun

Son, me, husband, facing the sun