From the time of the Epic of Gilgamesh, the oldest known written story on Earth for those of you who slept through high school English classes, the art of story-telling has been a pivotal element in how we humans have wrestled with the eternal questions. Though the details of lives have changed through generations and by geography, the same basic questions seem to remain throughout all cultures and times. Concepts of love, loss, faith, purpose, health, family and belonging echo throughout the ages. And, though Abraham Maslow would diagree (he was the dude who theorized about the heirarchy of needs), these are as vital as tending to our physical needs.
I was reading an article recently from Scientific American that was truly was fascinating. The gist of it was that there was evidence found in caves in South Africa that indicate that humans whose cognitive abilities more or less mirrored our own existed about 164,000 years ago. The kicker is that, due to climate changes, most of humanity had gotten wiped out and that the human race as we know it likely are descendants of only six hundred individuals who hung out in these caves. Six hundred people changed the fate of history and facilitated us continuing as a species. I'm pretty sure I know six hundred people and if the fate of humankind were totally in their hands, I might be a little worried.
And yet, while these people lived very different lives from our own and would stand in awe of cars, computers and iPods, they gazed at the same sky. It's not a leap for me to imagine that after they sought sources of nourishment and shelter, they looked for means of connection and ways of communication. Somewhere along the way, art and the oral traditions began to emerge and be passed down. I believe that there is something inherently rooted in our biology at this point that knows the value of creating, of sharing what we know, of what we question and of what we dream.
Our stories are us. But, we are not merely our stories. Like most people, I could tell a thousand tales of amazing, beautiful, heart-breaking moments from my own life, but the totality would fall short from even beginning to adequately define me-- or you. Every individual interaction shapes and reframes our stories and when we are at our best, offer inspiration, comfort, joy and hope-- and remembrance to each other. Knowing what it felt like to walk along the Seine on a cold Autumn day, gazing at the Left Bank doesn't make me able to touch the greatness of those who went before--- like Picasso, Rimbaud or Matisse, but being there reminded me of my own unknown potential that always begins with stepping onto the path that calls to you-- the one that won't let go. Knowing what it's like to run down the side of a mountain in Colorado as a nine year old with my father and brother leaping somewhere between the dusty, brown earth and the wide open sky didn't just give me a taste of freedom, it gave a permanent remembrance of it, one that echoes in my cells just through recalling the story. Knowing what it was like to be tossed around in the Atlantic off of the coast of North Carolina during hurricane season didn't just offer proof of Mother Nature's power, it left me with a sense of tangible awe of my own vulnerability long before I would learn that during the years of the "stillness." Knowing what it was like to hike down the Grand Canyon on a hot July day didn't just give me a taste of true thirst, the knowledge that those donkeys probably do come in handy and the insight that the middle of summer may not be the best time to go hiking in AZ, it offered the sweet reminder that what goes down, must also come back up. Standing in the Sistine Chapel, before the Mona Lisa, in Freud's waiting room, in the bedroom where Mozart slept or high above Piazza San Marco didn't just leave me with photographs and postcards, but deep inner souvenirs that left me richer in wisdom, humility and grace-- and the knowledge that it is not up to us to decide the effects our work will have. It is simply up to us to do it whole-heartedly.
Our adventures, struggles, and triumphs bring us the ingredients for our stories and while it is doubtful that the eternal questions ever will be answered definitively, it is up to each generation to ask them and to live as if it were possible to wonder and to know. By sharing the tales of our quests, we discover fire for the second time-- over and over again.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Journey of an Artist
I remember everything about that day. It began as I woke up believing that I would enjoy the beginning of my working vacation in CA. It ended with having come back from the edge of death. The day was a swirling mix of the desert, the photo shoot, the food, the allergic reaction, the ER, the other side, the promise and the return. I've told the story before (see my note "After...shock" for the full story) and a year later, I have a different story I need to tell right now. It's not the one of how a life-altering experience happened. It is not the one that stole my health and has held it captive for the past 365 days. The story that pulses through my veins is deeper than tragedy and loss. It about honoring a promise, holding up my end of the bargain and seeing my entire life as a work of art.
I have heard people say that on one's deathbed, it won't be work that he/she thinks of, it will be the people he/she loves. In my experience though, aside from a thought of my mother, I wasn't thinking of my loved ones. I felt content with my relationships, always having given a lot of attention to nurturing my connections with the people in my world. As my vital signs were slipping and I was fully aware of what was happening, one of the key elements that kept me connected to this planet and to life itself was the overwhelming thought that I could not die without having my work-- my art-- in the world in more concrete, organized ways than I had done up until that point. The conviction that arose in those horrible moments has been what has sustained me during the past year and in very real ways, gave me new life. It wasn't simply the decision to create no matter what, it was to value my work differently.
Like many artists, I often battled insecurities and their opposite during my journey as an artist. Because my talents in writing and photography both came to light initially during times when I needed them more than breath, there was never a question of whether I would do them or not. I wanted so badly, so completely, to create, to find beauty in the world, to tell stories both with words and visually that often, I took any gig that was offered to me and worked for free. I didn't care that I was giving it away. At times, I joyfully worked three jobs to support my drug of choice: creating. I had endless conversations with a friend about my own worth, about the burden of coming from a family where the arts are hobbies and not professions and how stifling that was for me, especially since I knew very early in my life where my talents manifested. It didn't matter that I was a straight A student all the way through school. I wanted to create worlds and sanctuaries with words and images. I wanted to be surrounded by music, not merely occasionally, but all the time.
Finding my skills as a music journalist and photographer was like witnessing the heavens open. It was what guided me to move to Brooklyn where I felt like I fell in love with a whole city all at once. Seven years and a thousand beautiful and challenging adventures later, I still feel that way. Even during those first months in my empty apartment when I spent time staring at equally empty four walls, I knew that I had found a city of my people. At last.
When I faced down death a year ago-- and not for the first time, something shifted in my body and spirit. I returned with an unwavering committment to owning my talents, to being willing to stand behind them and to stand up for them. I don't work for free anymore. I realized how precious my time and energy and abilities are and how imperative exchange is.
I used to get asked a lot by people (if I offered, this doesn't apply to you) to shoot their shows. It would usually go something like this, "Hey girl! I really love your shots. I'm playing at __________ (insert Lower East Side venue of your choice) on _________ (probably Thursday if you're thought of as a particularly hip band). You can come and take picutres!" Note the lack of a question there. I began to wonder if these people would go to a restaurant and say the same thing to the chef/owner. "Hey! I'm going to come in on Thursday (uh, unless it's the day of the show). You can give me free food, even though I am sure you spent years learning your craft and a lot of money buying equipment and supplies." However, I take full responsibility for the times I actually showed up and let my desire to shoot overpower my good business sense. I guess for a long time, I didn't really have much of that. I spent hours honing my creative skills and not on finding ways to embrace the journey as an artist in its totality. I only wish I didn't have to almost die to grasp this lesson and its importance so completely.
But, the beauty of my tragedy is that the slate was washed clean that day. Suddenly, I no longer felt insecure about my calling as an artist. I felt whole because of it-- it has been the one part of me that has remained. My life as I knew it vanished in an instant, my health left me, the things that I depended on for security disappeared and what stayed shining like a beacon in the night was my desire to create, to add love and beauty to the world, to tell stories, to capture scenes that reflect how amazing life is and how amazing we are. All of us. Everyone and everything has a story and I take great pleasure in climbing inside and revealing those precious gems to the world. It is also why I share my own stories, why I am honest about my journey and why I am now, at last, so willing to own every little part of my life. And, so while I long to be back shooting a show in the middle of the night in a hot, sweaty venue surrounded by my people, whether I know them personally or not, for now, I find ways to create anyway. Anyway. And, that is really a defining word for me. If you love something and if you're lucky, something will happen that erases doubt and plunges you headfirst into immersing yourself in life so deeply there is nothing else but everything. Instead of seeing all that I lack, I feel profoundly grateful for the opportunity and challenge to see all that I have. There are endless ways to see the world and to be in the world. Regardless of circumstances, the question that I live is a daily answering of this: how do I want to move through the day? I just happen to answer it through my camera and through my pen and the result is that the art I'm creating is not merely coming into being through my articles, essays and images, but through the fullness and completeness of life itself.
I have heard people say that on one's deathbed, it won't be work that he/she thinks of, it will be the people he/she loves. In my experience though, aside from a thought of my mother, I wasn't thinking of my loved ones. I felt content with my relationships, always having given a lot of attention to nurturing my connections with the people in my world. As my vital signs were slipping and I was fully aware of what was happening, one of the key elements that kept me connected to this planet and to life itself was the overwhelming thought that I could not die without having my work-- my art-- in the world in more concrete, organized ways than I had done up until that point. The conviction that arose in those horrible moments has been what has sustained me during the past year and in very real ways, gave me new life. It wasn't simply the decision to create no matter what, it was to value my work differently.
Like many artists, I often battled insecurities and their opposite during my journey as an artist. Because my talents in writing and photography both came to light initially during times when I needed them more than breath, there was never a question of whether I would do them or not. I wanted so badly, so completely, to create, to find beauty in the world, to tell stories both with words and visually that often, I took any gig that was offered to me and worked for free. I didn't care that I was giving it away. At times, I joyfully worked three jobs to support my drug of choice: creating. I had endless conversations with a friend about my own worth, about the burden of coming from a family where the arts are hobbies and not professions and how stifling that was for me, especially since I knew very early in my life where my talents manifested. It didn't matter that I was a straight A student all the way through school. I wanted to create worlds and sanctuaries with words and images. I wanted to be surrounded by music, not merely occasionally, but all the time.
Finding my skills as a music journalist and photographer was like witnessing the heavens open. It was what guided me to move to Brooklyn where I felt like I fell in love with a whole city all at once. Seven years and a thousand beautiful and challenging adventures later, I still feel that way. Even during those first months in my empty apartment when I spent time staring at equally empty four walls, I knew that I had found a city of my people. At last.
When I faced down death a year ago-- and not for the first time, something shifted in my body and spirit. I returned with an unwavering committment to owning my talents, to being willing to stand behind them and to stand up for them. I don't work for free anymore. I realized how precious my time and energy and abilities are and how imperative exchange is.
I used to get asked a lot by people (if I offered, this doesn't apply to you) to shoot their shows. It would usually go something like this, "Hey girl! I really love your shots. I'm playing at __________ (insert Lower East Side venue of your choice) on _________ (probably Thursday if you're thought of as a particularly hip band). You can come and take picutres!" Note the lack of a question there. I began to wonder if these people would go to a restaurant and say the same thing to the chef/owner. "Hey! I'm going to come in on Thursday (uh, unless it's the day of the show). You can give me free food, even though I am sure you spent years learning your craft and a lot of money buying equipment and supplies." However, I take full responsibility for the times I actually showed up and let my desire to shoot overpower my good business sense. I guess for a long time, I didn't really have much of that. I spent hours honing my creative skills and not on finding ways to embrace the journey as an artist in its totality. I only wish I didn't have to almost die to grasp this lesson and its importance so completely.
But, the beauty of my tragedy is that the slate was washed clean that day. Suddenly, I no longer felt insecure about my calling as an artist. I felt whole because of it-- it has been the one part of me that has remained. My life as I knew it vanished in an instant, my health left me, the things that I depended on for security disappeared and what stayed shining like a beacon in the night was my desire to create, to add love and beauty to the world, to tell stories, to capture scenes that reflect how amazing life is and how amazing we are. All of us. Everyone and everything has a story and I take great pleasure in climbing inside and revealing those precious gems to the world. It is also why I share my own stories, why I am honest about my journey and why I am now, at last, so willing to own every little part of my life. And, so while I long to be back shooting a show in the middle of the night in a hot, sweaty venue surrounded by my people, whether I know them personally or not, for now, I find ways to create anyway. Anyway. And, that is really a defining word for me. If you love something and if you're lucky, something will happen that erases doubt and plunges you headfirst into immersing yourself in life so deeply there is nothing else but everything. Instead of seeing all that I lack, I feel profoundly grateful for the opportunity and challenge to see all that I have. There are endless ways to see the world and to be in the world. Regardless of circumstances, the question that I live is a daily answering of this: how do I want to move through the day? I just happen to answer it through my camera and through my pen and the result is that the art I'm creating is not merely coming into being through my articles, essays and images, but through the fullness and completeness of life itself.
Self-portrait, 08.09.10
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