A Trip to the Art Gallery
June 29, 1998
5:32 a.m.
I had the best of intentions. I really did. I slept "late" all last week (meaning I didn't get up at 4:00 to write). And I tried desperately to ignore the manuscript that sat almost finished on my desk. But it whispered to me every day with that wafish look that is as impossible to ignore as the last slice of chocolate cake sitting on the kitchen table. It's not my fault. I wrote most of the day Saturday. And I spent the entire morning at the keyboard Sunday--then another hour here Sunday night. As Lisa said yesterday morning, "I guess this means the vacation from writing is a bust, eh?" What was really aggravating was that she said it with a smile on her face that said she knew this moment woud come. [ grin? ] Actually, I'm glad I tried to step away. I learned something in the process--or I guess I should say I relearned something I already knew. At this point in my life, I write because I want to. I write because it helps me see things about myself and my life. I write because it feels like a part of me, and I would be less of a person if I didn't. This is an important realization to me. Bear with me as I try to explain why. We went to the Indianapolis Museum of Art yesterday. It's a beautiful place, expansive, and filled with some incredible work. I mean serious art, Van Gogh, Monet, and Rembrandt and stuff. We spent four hours looking at paintings that were as many as 3,000 years old. Classical, romantic, neo-impressionists, weird modernists. The work hung in the controlled environment of the museum, soaking up precise lighting like primadonnas frozen in time, their colors and tones reaching out to grab unsuspecting passers by, forcing them to stop and glance, to raise an eyebrow, or to just say, very softly, "hummm . . . " Each work had a small plaque glued on the wall next to it that informed the great unwashed like me how the work fit into the puzzle of the art world's history. Tucked away in a corner with it's own little plaque was a painting by a man whose name, in a case of fitting irony, I cannot recall. The words that accompanied the work went something like this: "It's hard to believe that so and so's (insert real name) work remains unappreciated even today. His use of color . . ." You get the point. I looked at the painting, and saw how beautiful it was. Warm, golden hues of a landscape that was somehow important to the artist. Peering closer, I saw the paint, how each brush stroke was formed precisely. I suddenly caught a glimpse of the artist at work, seventy or a hundred years ago. He was hunched over, peering at his work. He had a bristly beard that had a smudge of dark leaf green caught in it. He smelled of tobacco. I saw him touch his brush to the hillside and smile. I wanted to learn something more about him, then. I wanted to write his name down, but we didn't have a pen or paper so he remains mysterious and somehow more powerful because of it. Here was a man, though--an artist, who was apparently underappreciated in his time and remains so today--or so says his plaque. Yet his painting showed intricate care, and ultimate joy in creation. I'm at that stage in my development where I should be paying more attention to writing and less attention to selling (maybe you're always at that stage, eh?), yet still I tend to judge myself as a writer by whether my stories sell somewhere or not. If anyone has taken a look at the "Ever Present Accept-O-Matic" recently you'll realize why I don't often judge my work as overly worthy. I'm also at that stage where writers in my "group", defined as those folks who have been doing it for about as long as I have, are starting to see some success. Some see more than others. And in my mind, most are seeing more than me. Am I jealous? Not really ... well, okay, maybe a little. Okay, I lied. I'm jealous every time someone else sells a story--just as I am pleased when they do, too. Writing is a psychotic life. Don't try this at home without supervision. But I had just spent two days breaking free on my self-induced shackles, and now I was looking at a piece of art that seemed to be waiting specifically for me. Who knows--maybe in the cosmic way of the world, this man painted this picture specifically so that it would end up in this specific museum to be seen by this specific writer. Or maybe not. For whatever reason the paining existed, my heart soared, I felt communion with this unknown but oh-so memorable artist. I woke up this morning at a shade past four and I went downstairs to turn on my computer. I called up a story I had written a few weeks ago, and I peered at the opening sentence. It wasn't quite right, you know. It needed a tweak, a twist that would give the character a tad more respect. And I placed the brush on the screen, dabbing a new shade of color over the last. was named the CoolStop Site of the Day for June 25, 1998   Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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