"Knowing [this], that the trying of your faith worketh patience." -James 1:3
Ok, this one's from experience. You'll just have to trust me on this one.
Here's what you do when your patience is being stretched:
Breathe and remember that you are not in control of everything.
Seriously. Read the verse. Faith and patience are clearly linked.
BREATHE.
I'm not kidding. This is what it's all about. Perspective. Take a step back.
REMEMBER.
This includes the little things. Remember that there aren't "little things." You exist in an interconnected world. There are designs at work that are bigger than yours.
You are NOT in control of everything.
Blunt implication: Get over yourself. Patience is recognizing a higher power at work than YOU getting what YOU want, when YOU want it. You are important, it's true. You have real value. But you are also too limited to see that you are way too stupid to understand everything. Get over yourself and widen your gaze a bit.
Breathe and remember that you are not in control of everything.
"Cease striving and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth." -Psalm 46:10
In an age where digital presence is really the most far-reaching method of creative reach, what is the current value of impermanent media? Something to think about.
There's something truly profound when you find yourself caught up in something happening in front of you. You see things from your own standpoint and not one determined for you by a man dressed in black with a lensed box on his shoulder. A creative act can truly be directed AT you, because you are the one standing smack in front of it. It can be a life-changing experience. It can be something that you'll never forget. You were THERE. You FELT it.
On the other hand, permanent media (such as youtube video, dvd, recorded music, etc... you know what I'm talking about) has a much harder time directly connecting to an audience. Even a video recorded for a specific event can completely miss the mark if the atmosphere isn't right or if something is distracting, etc... it's impersonal and will barrel through even the most hostile of situations, not yielding to the moment. A steamroller whose motto is “Catch as catch can.” To be honest, it thumbs its nose at the individuals watching it, as they have no choice but to engage it on predetermined grounds or miss out on the experience, because nothing they do can change what happens. It's a one-way street.
So from an audience's standpoint, it seems as if the impermanence of an event heightens the creative potential, and often the importance. I know, not a revolutionary thought. It's easy to see how a live event (even if it's a set performance that has happened many times) has its own inherent value. It has an ephemeral quality... now it's here, now it's gone. This will never happen again in the exact way that it just happened, so pay attention. As they say, you can never step in the same river twice. And, for the most part, they are right.
But it may not be so easy an answer, this valuation of impermanence above the rest. In the case of an artist hoping to find an appropriate niche, it's certainly a difficult situation. Does one train (yes, training is an essential part of art... it doesn't just appear out of thin air, thank you) to provide an audience with fleeting art, one that is beautiful for a moment and then is gone? Because here's the deal: a portfolio is a good thing to have. To have a good amount of experience in permanence allows you to be able to provide future employers/agents/managers with evidence of capability. Audience testimony typically doesn't impress a professional. Just sayin'.
So from an artist's standpoint, it seems as if the permanence of an event provides a larger audience and proof of a job well done. The payoff seems much higher for the artist whose niche is in something that will last, meaning the creation of an event that is both reproducible and distributable. Fred is creating an artistic experience that will last longer and impact more people than, say, any artist near you.
Which brings up my final rabbit trail: cultural impact. The scope of culture has gotten too far out of hand to reign back in. The vocabulary of art is now a global one. Whereas the local artist was once able to address local issues to locals, now the global artist is the primary influence. Why? Because he or she is most likely far better as his or her craft than the local artist. And of course they are. They have to be to make it to that point. They are, by definition, better than all the other local artists... insofar as they have mass appeal. But here's the trick (brace yourself... this is a bit muddled): the tastes of the masses to whom they are appealing are now based on the features of those who have attained that mass appeal. Ok... we made it, but that was rough. I'll restate: most people now compare the art that they are viewing to a global standard. Why? Because now everyone has access to it, whether on TV or on the internet. That's all we know. We're not stupid. We want the good stuff if we can get it. But it has created a great gulf fixed between local and global art. In short, this sucks and is stupid. I could go on... there's a pretty good comparison between this and consumerism in general, and it's pretty dead-on with the idea of locally grown food versus the supermarket, but I'll spare you. Yes, yes, you're welcome.
So what should an artist strive for? It's hard to tell. Personally, I think that an impermanent event that comes organically from a community is the most powerful kind of art. It most reflects real life. It elicits the most catharsis; it evokes the greatest power. It's real. And when it can't be reproduced in the same way, there's a possessive value to it; it becomes yours to remember. However... it seems that the map has lost the territory. Culture has created a platform to display the artistic output of the global community, and in return the global artistic output has limited the language of the community to strictly global terms. To fully meet the expectations of the new techno-savvy, globally-aware audience, an artist is forced either to re-train his audience (much like an optometrist re-trains the eyes of his patients so they can see near AND far) or succumb to the new language of culture and work in a medium that is easily digestible to the audience. We're not used to making our own art. It's given to us, right? You just have to get online or turn on the TV.
It's a tricky game, this art thing.
This is a very personal subject, I realize. Some musicians are better on their albums than they are live. Some subject matters are better suited for movies than live plays. Some writers should be shot. But there needs to be a balance. It seems that we are in a time where if a piece of art can't translate to youtube, it's not going to make the rounds and be experienced by those who need it. And, yes, that's just wrong. But that also means that an artist has to think about how they come across to an audience that's used to getting their artistic references in binary.
So... what do you think? Is it worth the effort to produce art that will only be experienced as it happens? Or would that energy be better put to use in creating a permanent art that might be able to outlive the artist or... gasp... go viral?
Yes, I realize that the economy of my words is so grossly over-inflated that it's waiting for the townspeople to rise up and rush the courthouse.
Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where all this is coming from and where it is going? Since you know, after all, that you are in the midst of transitions and you wished for nothing so much as to change. -Rilke
Now I'm not going to call this is a rant, per se... More of a need to express the growing emotions that have been surging in my spirit over the last few days. Call it cathartic, I guess. I completely understand if you don't have the will or the patience to work your way through this slog of a post; to be honest, I barely have the will or the patience to write it. But write it I feel I must do... compulsory to some extent. It's all that is allowed for me to actually physically do, as recently my car's transmission gave up the ghost in front of the Total Wine as I was on my way to the Booksamillion on Harbison Blvd, keeping me from driving back to Charlotte (not that CLT is doing me any good at this point...). So I suppose this is preferable to walking a hundred miles, although my feet won't be able to do any moving and will continue to move as if I have somewhere to go.
So here's a snarky "All hope abandon blah blah blah." Fair warning. This is going to be in the typical nature of blogs, that is to say completely self-oriented and/or self-obsessed. It's the only way.
--
Marley was dead to begin with. In this particular drama, playing the part of Marley is my enthusiasm for a recent move to Charlotte, NC. This ordeal, for all those somewhat distanced from the situation (which, if you're reading this blog, hi. We should hang out.), was something of an impulse thing. I had been living in Greenville, SC long enough to really feel the smallness of the town and my own life's experiences, namely two years. The growth of the local community belied the abandonment of my own. I hadn't attended a church faithfully since... well, since recent memory. I had gotten way, way out of the habit during my undergrad years, because the traveling drama team visited a new church every week. And I suppose my standards are perhaps a bit on the impossible side, but there were no churches in the upstate South Carolina area that I felt even marginally interested in attending. That aside, my desire to be in and amongst the Church was growing at a rate proportional to my waist size. That is to say, growing quickly and unceasingly. When an opportunity appeared, I ran with it. Not in an aerobic sense, although the thrift that was thrust upon me has seen to a reducing of the aforementioned waist. And now, in the aftermath of that haste, I find myself torn.
Here's the deal. Elevation Church (the impetus for my spring from SC) is generally known to be among the most creative churches in the world. They consistently produce some of the most interesting visual content that exists in the church-at-large, and possibly anywhere outside of professional movie studios. And yet, despite their visual excellence, they tend to lack content that might provide a suitable empathetic or intellectual response that might fully complement the bravado shown by their illustrious leader, Pastor Stephen Furtick. I'm just calling it how I sees it. And that's how I sees it. Polished, yes. Pretty, yes. Innovative, sometimes. Revolutionary... almost. Not quite.
Here's where this post might take a turn for the bloggy (as if it hasn't been there for at least three hundred words). In the interest of full disclosure, I already know how unqualified I am to be saying what I'm saying. There is no reason that anyone should listen to a word that I have to say in regards to anything. And still I write. This intrigues me.
Here lies the crux of my concern. This is what I would like to explore in this wordy tub o' thought: is it appropriate or prideful to speak forcefully and honestly about matters that you only have thought-equity invested in? To rephrase: in this case, is it my RESPONSIBILITY (emphasis mine)to contribute my perspective to a church's creative leaders or simply a prideful attempt at finding my own significance, even if an unintended side-effect? ... and, depending on the answer, what's the implication on a Christian's responsibility to contribute to the body of Christ if they have no vested authority in their respective fields?
I'll even take another step back and go completely universal for a sec. What is the appropriateness for a layperson, driven though he may be, to walk into a respected place of worship and ask if he can play, too? A gray area in practicality, although on paper it sounds relatively easy. There are many factors that prevent one from walking on water: buoyancy, surface tension, salinity, etc. Not to mention that only one non-deity was documented doing it, to relatively ill-effect. And certainly it is not advisable to step into a neighbor's yard to borrow their pool for a bit while they are in the midst of a brutal water polo match. Even if you say excuse me as you take the first step.
So I move to Charlotte with the hopes of contributing my two cents. So here's derr strooggle: Which is the less-prideful decision? 1. To focus on my own relationship with Christ and with others that I come into contact with and wait patiently for opportunities to arise organically from situations (in other words, be passive), or 2. Be proactive and attempt to insert myself strategically into the workings of a powerful Christian zeitgeist-factory? Honestly, not an easy one. On one hand, all things will be on the timetable of God and his working, but then again, it's more advisable to throw your seed onto fertile soil (although this last metaphor seems a little risque, it's the best one I could think of).
I know that I'm not going to "arrive" if ever I am allowed to participate with the creative team. I just desire the opportunity to be able to even start the process of learning from hands-on experience and grow slowly into an effective artist. And so far, I've either pulled the rug out from under myself as I am engaging with the church to keep from doing it for the wrong reasons, or gotten bitter that I've ended up homeless (oh yeah, I'm def not living in my own space, but on the continuing good will of a benefactor and couch).
Perhaps I can't answer this question just yet. It's still maturing, as am I.
And I know that this issue is not as dichotomous as I'm implying. There's of course the fear of failure that is ever-present, and also a personal reaction against it. There's the resentment that I have to force myself upon someone in order to proceed with my life. There's a ridiculous quality in pursuing an artistic life in general, though I know that such a life in the church would be the only thing that would satisfy my intellectual/emotional needs. There's the time-consuming exhaustion of working a terrible job. There's no personal space for reflection.
There's the irrepressible ache for artistic outflow that remains dammed up inside and swirling as if there's a brutal water polo match raging.
It's as if my transmission has seized up in front of the Total Wine on Harbison Blvd, that I have no way of fixing it myself, grinding my forward momentum to a halt.
In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan by Robert Seymour Bridges
In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan Is fragrant in the wake of summer hence, 'Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereon In melancholy and godlike indolence: When the proud spirit, lull'd by mortal prime To fond pretence of immortality, Vieweth all moments from the birth of time, All things whate'er have been or yet shall be. And like the garden, where the year is spent, The ruin of old life is full of yearning, Mingling poetic rapture of lament With flowers and sunshine of spring's sure returning; Only in visions of the white air wan By godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.
Merry Autumn by Paul Laurence Dunbar
It's all a farce,—these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o'er field and dell, Because the year is dying.
Such principles are most absurd,— I care not who first taught 'em; There's nothing known to beast or bird To make a solemn autumn.
In solemn times, when grief holds sway With countenance distressing, You'll note the more of black and gray Will then be used in dressing.
Now purple tints are all around; The sky is blue and mellow; And e'en the grasses turn the ground From modest green to yellow.
The seed burs all with laughter crack On featherweed and jimson; And leaves that should be dressed in black Are all decked out in crimson.
A butterfly goes winging by; A singing bird comes after; And Nature, all from earth to sky, Is bubbling o'er with laughter.
The ripples wimple on the rills, Like sparkling little lasses; The sunlight runs along the hills, And laughs among the grasses.
The earth is just so full of fun It really can't contain it; And streams of mirth so freely run The heavens seem to rain it.
Don't talk to me of solemn days In autumn's time of splendor, Because the sun shows fewer rays, And these grow slant and slender.
Why, it's the climax of the year,— The highest time of living!— Till naturally its bursting cheer Just melts into thanksgiving.
To Autumn by John Keats
I Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
II Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
III Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark Makes its mark On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves Over fallen leaves; Then my olden garden, where the golden soil Through the toil Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep, Whispers in its sleep.
'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox, Where the box Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks, There's a voice that talks Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here Year by year,-- Dreams of joy, that brightened all the labouring hours, Fading as the flowers.
Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief; But relief For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow From the Long-Ago, When I think of other lives that learned, like mine, To resign, And remember that the sadness of the fall Comes alike to all.
What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs! And what prayers For the silent strength that nerves us to endure Things we cannot cure! Pacing up and down the garden where they paced, I have traced All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find Comfort in my mind.
Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear: Yet how near Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face, Of the human race! Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart, Not apart! They who know the sorrows other lives have known Never walk alone.
As Summer into Autumn slips by Emily Dickinson
As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say "The Summer" than "the Autumn," lest We turn the sun away,
And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved --
So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.
Autumn Day by Rainer Maria Rilke
Lord: it is time. The summer was immense. Lay your shadow on the sundials and let loose the wind in the fields.
Bid the last fruits to be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them to ripeness, and chase the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now will not build one anymore. Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long time, will stay up, read, write long letters, and wander the avenues, up and down, restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.
To Autumn by William Blake
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
'The narrow bud opens her beauties to The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing, And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
'The spirits of the air live in the smells Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.' Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat, Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson
In the other gardens And all up the vale, From the autumn bonfires See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers, The red fire blazes, The grey smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all! Flowers in the summer, Fires in the fall!
