We, the Cacti
We, the Cacti
Sung Chang
In the beginning, there was a sound. This sound was not yet audible. This sound was a feeling. This feeling of a sound created movement. So I moved.
I have cacti in my studio. I do not know much about cacti. I do plan to learn more about them. I like cacti because they embody the totality of the human spirit. One of the cacti in my studio has thorns that are over an inch in length. A lapse in concentration while repotting this friend meant friendly punctures through two layers of gloves. Yet, as a cactus owner, the first thing I noticed was that cacti have scars, too. Each scar, story. Christian Wiman, in his poem “Interior,” paints it this way: “The past is not a place but story upon story gone so far inside of things it takes a touch of almost inhuman love to tell them.” Beneath its crown of thorns, the cactus ferments its tales. Pierced, crushed it may appear, but its wounds evidence healing by inhuman touch.
As fallen beings, we are armed with thorns. It is what we are, what we do best. But some cacti blossom—they are absolutely breathtaking. The water and the energy stored inside of the cactus—stored through droughts, through thunderstorms—at the precise moment, birth a bolt of color on the arid canvas. The drought and storms become life.
We too, harness inner life. And it is this inner life—stored through droughts, through thunderstorms—that, at the precise moment, births color on our arid canvas. Creation. Even as prickly, sojourning cacti, it is in our essence to manifest color on the canvas. We are attached to a greater House, and thus our being is triggered to reflect the Being. It is what we are, what we do best.
There are many reasons not to create, to not press record. Lack of time. Lack of equipment. Lack of talent. Fear of failure. Perhaps most of all, fear of irrelevance. At some point, pegs that are fastened in a secure place give way, and canopies collapse.
One desires one’s creation to dent the universe. Indeed, it is untruthful to say one does not desire—or expect—one’s creation to bend airwaves, to alter worlds, to halt chatter. The breadth of this universe varies, but it nonetheless exists. Irrelevance brings none of that, and it is feared. Irrelevance is insecurity. One creates in silence, yet expects creation to generate outside noise, attraction. When silence is returned with silence, thorns mimic this insecurity. Attraction is guised as relevance. In other words, one is told that relevance is external. In some respect, this is true. Relevance is external, but it is so even before one creates. Perhaps it is so only before creation. Before one’s first movement, all other relevance is already irrelevant.
So why do we create? There is no reason to create. There lives only the need, the desire, to create. There is no why, but only how. Are cacti insecure? Is that why they dawn thorns? Vulnerability produces thorns. But vulnerability also blossoms flowers. Irrelevance is not a part of a cactus’ equation. What is relevant to a cactus is the beating sun, the scarce rain, and the arid soil. None of these elements does the cactus dictate or conduct.
Cacti bloom in the most improbable environments. Even when a cactus blooms, the elements do not change. Its bloom does not dent its universe. But for a moment, the bloom remains. Perhaps what a garden rose perceives as improbable is opportune for the cactus. Perhaps it is the inopportuneness that sparks opportunity. Maybe the inopportuneness is the opportunity. It only matters whether you are a rose or a cactus.
Canopies collapse. The fallen canopy is now canvas.
C.S. Lewis once said, “For broken dreams, the cure is, dream again and deeper.”
In a realm where success is defined by the number of streams, downloads, likes, follows, and shares, it is easy to fail. In that world, it is easy to break, and no amount of dreaming will cure one’s brokenness. But if success is defined as capturing a moment’s imprint, then others’ reactions are an afterthought. The manifestation of the innate desire to put forth color is what remains. What remains is what was created. At times, the artist is but a mere, grafted branch. Yet the branch is and remains, and it is beautiful. As Rick Rubin says, “All that matters is that you get to express yourself, and the audience gets something that speaks to them, even if these two things are not the same.”
Nowadays, the first response to a great moment is to pull out a phone to take a picture of the moment or to hit record. Despite this instinct, you cannot capture the moment. You will attempt to frame the moment for eternal consumption, but at the cost of removing oneself from the moment itself. You want to be a part of that moment, that feeling, and not just attempt to document it. There are moments from recording my record that I cannot recreate. Something about the moment where one’s being is in a vacuum, with the Being. Mere minutes where one consumes and is consumed by nothing more than a hue, within. In that moment, attraction is irrelevant. Relevance is irrelevant. What matters is that I am leaving a carbon copy of my image that only exists in that moment. This image is not perfect. It is not complete. But this is creation, and it is beautiful, and that is my drug.
An artist is a creature that is honest to her feelings. Vulnerability is at the core of what and why we create. The originator dreams of something from nothing, as if the existential threat of a spark lapse is evident of a lack of breath (also known as creative energy). Yet even in great voids, where silence lives, the originator’s emptiness is masked by a reflection. Not always is this image focused or clear. More often, this image is marred or scarred or distraught. Silence, though, is not always an absence of sound. The misfigured work, indeed, is not disfigured. Instead, where silence lives, also lives the mirror song, a rhythm that reflects the originator’s entire cross section at the time of being. For the originator, reflecting the now is in itself, breath.
What is art, you ask. Art is the artist, now.
In the motion picture “Troy,” Achilles, famed warlord and part god, lets Briseis—a priestess of Apollo captured by the Greeks after they take the shores of Troy—in on a secret: “The gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal, because any moment may be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.”
Mortality is beautiful because this moment will never repeat itself. This moment is not perfect. This moment is often scarred, marred, or distraught. It is its fleeting nature that breathes beauty. Art is the pursuit of transferring that fleeting moment, to another. This verse, this song, could be one’s last. This chorus one hums over butter with eggs may be the melody one carries to the Garden. All of one’s being, as is, could be the final image one leaves behind. And that is just fine.
As followers of the Way, we cherish the imperishable hope of eternal life. Harnessing the reality of eternal life, however, does not subtract from this beauty. Rather, it multiplies the resonance of the moment, because this moment will not be repeated in eternity. One can have endless pies, but the slice one has on the plate now is like none other, to never appear again. Everything is more beautiful because what was certain doom is now painted as rivers in the desert and water in the wilderness, in what we call art. Who would think to remember the cacti?
We live in a world of anticipation. The next big thing. The next big person. The next big moment. Even our subconscious is marketed and mined, wired to expect more. What is expected of a cactus? A garden rose is expected to bloom. Cherry blossoms, where I live, are excitedly anticipated every spring. A cactus? It is expected to be. It withstands heat. It takes in water when it can. And it may blossom. It may not. And that is just fine, for a bruised cactus the Gardner will not break. As for the cactus, the art is already complete in its being.
A cactus’ years are numbered by the variety of quiets it endured. Silence can bloom with the touch of an almost inhuman love. How beautiful are the minds that comprehend this as art.
In the beginning, there was nothing. Until Someone sang to me. And I moved. Sing me a word, and I will paint you a song.
By Sung Chang
Writer & Musician
Sung Chang’s debut album, “Sobriquet” is out now, wherever you listen to music.
Photography by Ruth Dahan