All Things Nu

If art is created in the forest and there’s no one around to read it, was there really an artist?

For me, waking in the morning is a lot like fishing, except I don’t get bait-juice on my hands. My ritual is to cast my first conscious thoughts in the direction of thankfulness. I thank God for another day to live, and for the opportunities he’s given me. I commit myself to him, and ask how he’d like me to direct my energies today. Then I wait … because that’s what you do when you fish.

Today, my cast hooked a thought that pulled back.

I enjoy writing. It is a hobby, a release. Writing is a way to express ideas and experiences that would otherwise constipate my soul. It is an urge, a habit; even a burden. So much so that I’m compelled to say, in the words of one fellow penman, that “I fancy myself a writer.”

One of writing’s idiosyncrasies — and there are many — is that writers really want their stuff to be read. I’ve seen it before in other artists, like photographers or musicians. Artists are motivated by the way their art moves people. Creativity is to be enjoyed, imbibed; breathed in and swirled on the palette of the brain. Art should be displayed and viewed, because art provokes and incites a response.

The idea that pulled back this morning was a question about my art: How do I feel about being published as an author?

Part of me answered, “I’m okay with not being published.” After all, writing is a part of who I am. I would write if I were in prison. I would write if I were the last person on earth. I think I would find a way to write if you cut off my hands.

Another part of me was more insistent, “I want to be published.” I write to paint thoughts in the conscious mind. I write to colorize concepts and drop-shadow ideas, giving them depth and perspective. I write to touch, to communicate. I write, humbly, to incarnate Truth on a page. That’s what writers do.

So the question has lingered throughout the day: If my art is created in the forest, and no one is around to read it, was there really an artist?

Life-Art

There’s a little bit of artistry in all of us, whether we consider ourselves artists or not. There is a certain artistry to parenting, or practicing law or leading a company. There is artistry in love, as no two couples love the same way.

Life is art.

A part of life-art is the deep, felt need to put it on display. It’s a part of our nature and identity as God’s image carriers. God felt compelled to display his art. Heck, he even created his own audience for the display. He was unsatisfied at merely existing as God. Though he had no need to create, he did — just because he wanted to. Then he stepped back to get a good view; and he was satisfied.

In a similar vein, he created us as miniature Artists, whose purpose is (at least in part) creating life-art. Ephesians 2 tells us that part of God’s redemptive purpose in Christ is to restore the artistry in us. We were created for good works, as God’s art. He makes us both art and artists, one and the same.

The Quandary

The artist’s quandary is that we don’t want to be known by our art, yet we do at the same time. Our art, in so many ways, is our identity. And yet it’s not.

The artistic process is a crucible. It is said that Michelangelo resented his work on the Sistine Chapel. In the midst of this four-year effort, he became so frustrated and disillusioned that he lamented his own lack of skill as an artist. Art requires effort and trial, endurance and patience. It is humbling and infuriating and exhilarating and rewarding.

Artistry is mothering. An artist first falls in love with her art, when it is nothing more than an idea. And she treasures it while it forms deep inside her; when she can’t even see it and no one else knows it exists. Then she experiences it growing within her, taking shape and moving. She goes through the labor pains of birthing it — she just wants it out. Then, once complete, she loves it like no one else can, with a mother’s pride; warts and all. For she can see the divine perfection behind its imperfect form.

Life is not a formula, and life-art is not paint-by-numbers. The strokes don’t always produce a masterpiece. And even when they do, some masterpieces escape notice. Ironically, perhaps most life-art is like Babette’s Feast: It may not reach the audience it could, but it reaches the audience it should. Some life-art, like a child’s watercolor portraits of Mom and Dad, are hardly masterpieces. Yet they are some of the most memorable pieces of art ever put on display.

Back to the Forest

Will I ever be widely read? I don’t know. I want to be; I really do. As best I can know myself, I say that with genuine humility. The thought that my words may never find their audience vexes me somewhere deep inside.

Yet there is also a tension that creates stability in my soul: I must allow my art to shape me. It’s easy to believe that I shape my art. But unless I allow for my art to shape me, I’ve not mothered it. Unless it changes me, it’s not really an expression of me.

So I find a satisfied frustration in the midst of my quandary. The frustration drives me to improve, to nurture and cultivate my craft and grow in the process. The satisfaction comes in knowing that the Artist is pleased and honored by what I do, though my art is but a child’s watercoloring in comparison to his.

To God be the glory.