Of Art and Age
Of Art and Age
Ronna Bauman
On Grasping Art that Feels Too Lofty
“Hope is the thing with feathers,” I write confidently, the strokes of my pen brandished like a strutting peacock. An old friend sent me this treasure a few years ago, a well-known nugget from Emily Dickinson’s trove, and I often pay it forward: “Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul / And sings the tune without the words / And never stops at all.” I inject the lines into a note for a friend—an offering in the midst of her waiting, and points for me: clearly, I’m cultured, for I quote poetry.
Dickinson’s lines, much like Tennyson and Longfellow and even Dr. Seuss, are nourishment to my soul, yet this particular poem’s symbolism is far from lofty, despite my self-congratulation. The metaphor is conspicuous and the author’s intent is clear, even from the outset. A sucker for iambic pentameter, I grabbed onto this little jewel precisely because it is simple, catchy, approachable. Because it rhymes!
I appreciate when art is accessible, handed to me like warm tea in a familiar mug, its purpose void of mystery. But I have five children aged 19 to 27, and lately, I find their art is not so easily grasped. I often feign my comprehension of the books, poems and films that they’re eager to share. The art that woos my kids can feel more to me like a spiced whiskey with a bitterness that I am unprepared for. When I encounter the daunting flavors that compel my children, I put down the glass, lay aside the anthology, tune out the music, or pivot in the gallery with a silent sigh, disappointed in myself that the beauty feels out of reach.
*
I thought I was deep, but am I actually (gasp) shallow? Their tastes make me wonder, “Why does this feel like a too-heavy lift for me?” Me, who often disappeared into corners of my house to scribble prose as a young girl, nursing a belief that I possessed a monopoly on the good, the beautiful and the true. My poetry, bursting with eloquence, would one day be famous, thought my nine-year-old self. But 45 years later, poetry sometimes eludes me, and I wonder if this is a hint of something I haven’t quite grasped about myself?
Perhaps I’m not alone. Certain work feels inaccessible to many viewers and readers, I’m sure. Doesn’t The New Yorker elude many of us? This bastion of literary high-mindedness lands in our mailbox weekly, nestled between coupon flyers and utility bills. The iconic graphics and social commentary arrive because our son—an aspiring journalist—subscribed in order to receive the free tote bag and occasional literary inspiration. As I flip through the pages of the 47 issues per year that take turns on my kitchen counter, I wonder to myself about the kind of reader who slogs her way to the articles’ end. Like so much art, the on-ramp feels too steep. Instead, I settle for strategically placing a few of these souvenirs in the bathroom basket, to impress my guests.
*
To be fair, arts and letters should indeed offer the world an invitation to ponder. In one of my favorite cinematic moments, Robin Williams’ character in Dead Poets Society mesmerizes his students with the allure of Walt Whitman:
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life! . . . of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless . . . of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here—that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
Professor Keating’s speech cuts us to the quick, rallying us to stand on our desks in defiance of all that lacks depth. He evokes a war cry: “Give us the arts!” Yet, if I’m honest, in the face of refined literature, with its big words, sometimes I feel so . . . small.
When my children “get it,” I applaud them. But it’s simultaneously salt in the wound for me, the mom who dragged all five of them to museums and concerts in every city we relocated. As a transitory military wife, I’ve gaped wide-eyed in galleries and cathedrals all over the world—I have cultural street cred, for heaven’s sake! So I admit, it feels unfair that so often, one generation down might see what I can’t see, and hear what I can’t hear among today’s creatives.
*
“Why do you get it, and I don’t?” I wonder out loud. “Does it feel,” my 22-year-old daughter kindly suggests, “like you haven’t done the work?” She generously offers that sometimes, she can relate.
She’s nailed it. It feels like I haven’t done the work. Like it’s my fault. It evokes the unwelcome return of that monster I try to slay: It evokes shame.
The poem that’s laborious for me to interpret? “Well,” I scold myself, “it’s because I didn’t spend my twenties reading The Great Books.” I’m ashamed that I talk a big game about culture with the artistic young people in my life, but haven’t actually read Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. Never mind that my early twenties had me navigating another country and a new community as an overseas Air Force wife, learning the art of marriage. Never mind that I was working and raising the very children who now outsmart me. The inner critic wins the day.
For what is shame’s twin, if not regret? And the language of regret is “the shoulds.” I should have sought that master’s degree. I should have connected to the downtown art scene. I should have frequented film festivals and read Anna Karenina. I should have taken up photography, posted my songs on Soundcloud, joined a writers’ circle. I march in line with so many of my generation to the cadence of shame and regret, the rhythm beating in my mind that I must be dumb. I feel dumb in the light of this great work.
Perhaps my fellow fifty-somethings would agree heartily, or perhaps I’m the only one that resonates with Walt Whitman’s description, “of myself forever reproaching myself.” Despite my academic training, it’s a formidable task to follow the latest strains of existential thought when dinner won’t make itself. Often, the sliver of time I’ve saved to curl up with a blanket and reading glasses turns into the task of rereading lofty allusions as my mind wanders like a toddler to tomorrow’s to-do list.
Nonetheless, Wendell Berry offers a gentle answer to my self-chafing. He writes: “The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.” Art is supposed to baffle us. And if my mind is the impeded stream, I will invite the obstructions. The low-hanging fruit is not always the most delicious.
Lasse Moller
Are not magic and mystery intertwined? We should strain to sharpen our senses, to ponder the creators’ intent, to grow in empathy, and to cultivate an eye for hidden meaning. To ask one another, “How did this film /image / verse land with you?” As my oldest son affirms, “I respect art that I don’t understand—even if I don’t understand it, I’m glad it’s there; it widens the landscape”
*
Outside of Oxford’s famed Blackwell’s bookstore, I once saw a chalkboard with a phrase that I often ponder: “The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls. — Pablo Picasso.” The dust of “daily life” gets thicker the more “dailys” one has under her belt. This is all the more reason for those who boast more days and decades to give ourselves grace—to approach seemingly unapproachable art with eagerness, seeking a good washing. As Christ followers, it’s with clean souls that we are free to celebrate mystery, to be confused, to “not get it,” and to enjoy the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living, in whatever form that takes. We need one another—old and young—to wash off the dust together.
Community offers the crucial kaleidoscope in which to cherish beauty with a more discerning eye, ear, heart, mind. This morning, my daughter texted me a Rainer Maria Rilke poem. It isn’t simple. There’s no iambic pentameter. It doesn’t even rhyme. But Rilke has significantly stirred her and her siblings, even and often to tears, so this window to her heart was a gift. She graced me with it in hopes that I’ll press on in a space to which she knows God is inviting me. She graced me with it to help wash off the dust, so I may more clearly see, feel, hear:
Each mind fabricates itself.
We sense its limits, for we have made them.
And just when we would flee them, you come
and make of yourself an offering.
I don’t want to think a place for you.
Speak to me from everywhere.
Your Gospel can be comprehended
without looking for its source
“Speak to me from everywhere.” From pages and canvases and television screens, God speaks to and beckons us. Though beauty is baffling, he dispels shame and “shoulds” because he comes to us. As impeded streams, we have limits, but we need not flee. Eventually these impediments will lead to a new tune, singing of our Creator’s beauty.
So I’ll keep leaning in, in my fifties, in my eighties. Because this gives me hope. And “hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul.”
Ronna Bauman
Mother & Communications Manager
Ronna lives and works in Colorado Springs
Photography by Jessica Boynton
