First Slow Me Down, And Then Move Me—Art as an Antidote.
written by Taylor Reed
A preface — I started working on this and quickly realized that it was uncovering questions I wasn’t ready to answer, mainly questions like “What is art?” That led to scribblings such as:
- Art is a process that involves some form of letting go, shedding, or operating from a different space but still involves doing.
- What’s left undone carries as much importance as what is done. I.E., restraint is involved.
- The artist assesses accomplishment. “Is this an extension of my intentions, or does it betray them?” This question might be even more telling if the artist’s intentions aren’t conscious. If the work resonates with others, wonderful, but that’s not the primary motivation.
- Art loses its bite if it doesn’t get the last word. Art for art’s sake is what’s vital. It plays a role in well-honed design and craftsmanship, but if the primary purpose of the work is a product, something is lost in subservience to consumerism. It might not be readily apparent, but this art still carries a crack and it’s not one of the “light-letting-in” sort.
I also noticed that if I focus too carefully on any of the rules above, universal application begins to fall apart.
For simplicity’s sake, rather than trying to work through the particular quandary of what art is, I’ll adopt an answer from Allan Kaprow, which I only encountered because it’s been adopted by Minneapolis’ Springboard for the Arts. “Art is a weaving of meaning making activities in any or all parts of our lives.”
It’s a generous definition. Just about anything could qualify as art under the correct conditions — which I think is helpful. Art that’s needed isn’t solely confined to paintings in museums, establishment-approved works, or pillars of art curriculum. It’s all over the place, and even in the areas marked more by its absence, art’s potential abounds. That’s a fair outline of an impression to work with.
Does art even matter? A friend of mine confessed lately to mulling that question. I didn’t see it coming, especially considering he’s an art history professor. It’s an honest question that he tends to grapple with in the first days of courses he teaches. And believe it or not, learning along with those grappling to uncover and dig into the depths of meaningful but often unquestioned assumptions is powerful. Here at Crosshatch, where art is baked into our very name, the question of art’s actual role deserves reflection, too.
I often work from ingrained and unexamined patterns. Sometimes, this instinct is helpful, but other times, things like rupture and reminding — deep affectation of the heart — are needed. These shifts can come about through a handful of means, but one of the primary ones — and one that I can participate in through my own agency — is the experience of art. I say “the experience of art” meaning both the encounter of observing artwork and the encounter of creating artwork. Before diving in too quickly, though, I want to travel first. To Delaware. Looking back a decade and a half.
Bumping along the dirt road, outlaw country on the stereo, we’d make our way to Wilmington, a university town. I’d have my daypack with me, carrying a sturdy little laptop, a couple of books, and a notepad with scrawled addresses and letters tucked into the cover. The narrow stairs up to the second-floor coffee shop always creaked. The air was organic, or perhaps we brought that cloud with us, gifts from manure stuck to our shoes and unwashed chore clothes. We were volunteers at Whimsical Farms, all there for different reasons. Our phones could call and text — that’s all — and there wasn’t reliable internet access at the farmhouse. So this trek every week or two offered the chance to catch back up with what was going on in world news and family circles, everything that hadn’t been spread through the grapevine of fields of WWOOFers, and the farmer’s markets, and candle-lit dinners in the freecycled camper I called home at the time. Once every one or two weeks. The limits imposed by the sparse visits necessitated intention and care. We’d focus on what mattered. Whether clacking keys with hints of chai in the air or sitting across a removable Formica tabletop, we’d be very present with whoever we were conversing with. We’d been waiting to delve in.
Now, I’m not beholden to those same limits.
I glance at my phone, which is right in front of me. My words critique excessive tech, but my kids know what my practices actually look like. Instead of keeping a scrap piece of paper in my pocket to scribble down significant things (for which periodic access to the vast webs of information on the internet is a legitimate blessing), I can immediately let this handheld device do my thinking for me. As a result, the little impulses grow increasingly frequent and, well, impulsive. Suddenly, I don’t have to remember anything, reflect on what’s worth the time and energy of looking up, or curate intentionally at all.
Where there once were fewer but longer and stronger threads of sustained inquiry and attention and intention bound together, I feel like I’ve got thousands of short, brittle attention tethers, all calling for gratification now.
Someone — I don’t remember who — brought up an analogy that illustrates part of this phenomenon: Modernity is like a brief visit to a massive and impressive art museum. As you walk through the doors, you sense an immediate pressure to hurry. You’re pulled in ten different directions. You’re compelled to rush amongst the bustle to try and see as many of the most prolific pieces as you can, but at the expense of sustained and meaningful focus on any one thing. Our capacity to be present and to reflect withers, and time ordinarily used for discernment and processing is instead spent trying to take as much as possible in.
The art museum analogy raises an irony. Art is a clear antidote to a hazy atmosphere of inattention, overstimulation, and shallow engagement. Where external limits aren’t perceptible, art can offer direction.
Start with the immediate sight, the sound, the smell — the flashy bits from the senses. Art’s script-flipping, unpredictable, left-brain-transcending nature draws my attention. It beckons me to wonder and to be present and reminds me of what is good, compelling, or necessary — all of which is to say it stops me in a place.
There’s more though: if I stay with it, it moves me. If I can find the right nooks within and offer time to settle in, I encounter art’s ability to transport. It brings me beyond myself and my own limited experience, while it can also bring sense to my experience. Skipping this part, the patient and transformational domain of letting art move me, risks burn-out from mistaking art for novelty.
Similar patterns exist with art-making. Inspiration comes first, quickly and naturally (or at least, it can.) That’s the fun part. That’s the part that makes me pause, and sometimes it’s only moments later that I drop the idea and move along. Suppose I’m willing to stick with it, even after that initial inspiration has faded. I try to create something that takes that inspiration and casts it in a more substantial, earthen way. That’s the part of the process that can really move me and might even move others.
Reading library books might be the most affordable form of travel. Experiencing art rides close behind, or perhaps they’re one and the same. They both offer portals that logic alone can’t spur. Think of music. What a healing, stabilizing force is offered by listening to and making music. I’m talking about opening things and zeroing in, meeting ourselves and others. Regardless of form, art carries power, to borrow a phrase from Rob Hopkins, to move us from what is to what if. Nothing is forcing me to pay attention to art. But it might be an antidote worth choosing.
