In my process of self-evaluation about my creativity and my goals, I’ve been a little frustrated by my desire to do everything at once. In considering a visit to MoMA tomorrow, I was thinking about how previously I’d based poetry on art, essentially working on both my perception of art and my skill at translating that perception into a different form. As I’m feeling almost a writer’s block, I’m thinking of returning to what was, in a way, journeyman practice. I’ll let you judge whether or not there’s anything of value in what came out, but this was a case where I know that I made an artistic connection to someone on the perception side.
During my college years, I participated in a writer’s group which met at a nearby bar on Monday nights, where there would be writing assignments, and our writings would be passed around and read by others (to encourage participation through a degree of anonymity), which proved to be a valuable prod (like an instructor-led exercise class) to just keep writing. Eventually, a regular Tuesday night poetry/music/art night was held at the bar, and on the third week, I was the featured poet. Later, I began to use Tuesday night’s visual art as my inspiration — a form of feedback that I could provide to the artist that went beyond "nice use of color" or "I really like the way you used collage" — I would write a poem that was either a transcription of what I perceived the art as saying, or that took elements of the art and my emotional response to the work and remixed them a bit. I’d usually just hand my notebook to the artist and ask them to read it.
One night, I remember a painting that grabbed me with both a profound sadness and an underlying anger. There was a ballerina in a drab pink tutu, stumbling through what I now remember as being almost dusty ruins of a great house — think Ms. Havisham’s from Great Expectations. I’m willing to concede that I may have even identified with Pip, both adoring this stumbling ballerina, and also feeling bitten and thus bitter as if she were the heartless and broken Estella. I should share what I wrote before closing out the story.
Ballerina
I want to catch you, to
reach out with open arms,
and carry you ’til
your feet hit the ground,
but I can’t
Or won’t, I’m not sure.
Once, you danced softly and gently,
pirhouetting into my mind,
to lift my heart, to show
it to the angels. Gracefully,
you showed me how you cared.
Then you left, and left me standing
alone at the door. For
a thousand hours, I left
the light on, so you could
find your way back.
You didn’t.
I waited still.
You didn’t.
I waited some more.
You didn’t.
So I locked the door,
and descended the stairs,
to the basement,
to die.
Now you’re back, wrists slit,
needing my help, pounding
on the door, crying for me.
You left me to die, as I must do to you.
Good night, darling, I love you.- Anthony Ortenzi, February 1995
When I got the notebook back, it had a note at the bottom of the page. "My wrists are slit, but I’ll be back." When I looked up from the page, he showed me the scar on his wrist, and put his hand on my shoulder in a way that said everything. I was immediately humbled and honored by the power of the connectivity I felt.
I need that depth of connectivity in my life. It’s why I want to create. I picked up the music gear because I think it’ll help me find a way to connect through creative expression. I love it when people "leave it all on the field" — Ani Difranco being the most absolute example of that I’ve seen in person, and having seen both Ray Charles and Tori Amos absolutely lose it on pianos, it feels to me like music somehow can bring me closer to that connection than trying to write poems.
But right now, maybe I need a little creative tune-up. Every time I go to MoMA (it’s been too long), I visit my friend Starry Night. Maybe I should drop in, say hi, and find something to practice translating.
As always, comments and (civil) criticisms welcome.