VOICES

There really are a lot of wonderful stories about people who overcame adversity and fulfilled their "creative potential;" women and men who found a way to give natural expression to their experience despite a lack of recognition, support, or someone else to believe in them. These stories are so powerful that we have long ago accepted that struggle and adversity are the stuff that art is made of; that creative expression is some kind of reward for the gifted few who, dedicated to their art, keep believing, keep working, and somehow survive. What we also learn from these stories is that creativity is not, as we might hope, the birthright of every one of us. These inspiring testimonials also contain, nonetheless, a sliver of truth which somehow escapes almost everyone: that the people who carry on, and keep their faith, not only are they the exceptions that prove a terrible rule; in the end their art is not the source of their pain, it is their salvation.

As an art teacher I swore to myself that I would expose the myth of art as struggle, and uphold one perhaps even bigger: that art is power, and truth, and possibility. The problem is, of course, that to want things to be different from the way they are is a failure of acceptance at least, and at the very worst, a lie. Anyway, how could I change something so deeply conditioned in all of us? What was missing in our culture that made such a sad state of being possible? Is art really nothing more than a life of suffering? I didn't think so, and still don't. Whatever suffering we experience from a life of art is no different than what we will suffer from the rest of life.

In all of those stories of hardship and triumph, and there are tons of them, it seems to me that art is the healing part, the thing that made life beautiful and real and possible. To me that is the point of these "triumphs of the human spirit," that the creative expression was the thing that bought them closer to experience, and that through it they were able to see, be awed by what they saw, and somehow by expressing that experience, they were able to assimilate it. Each of them found a way. So where does that leave the rest of us? Why do some of us shut down, lose our voice, give up?

It is no surprise to me that religion has believed in and even exploited the power of art, and as a result, supported it. It has never been difficult for the spiritual of heart to find the light in art, recognizing there a sister spirit, a fellow traveler, more earthbound to be sure, and prone to straying, but still on a sympathetic path at the very least. Governments and banks have proven themselves bad patrons, with poor vision that sees only green; they only support that which has demonstrated that it needs no support. Ultimately the best support comes from within, but how do we find that, or better still, how do we know that it even exists?

Parents can give that support. My mother told me to just do whatever I wanted. "Just do it," as the Nike slogan goes. She gave me all the support I ever wanted, and clearly she believed in me, that is until I started doing things she didn't like. That was hard to understand at first, conditional support. But I was lucky enough to have the momentum to keep me going. What about those people that get cut down before they even get started? We all know people who for one reason or another aren't doing what they really wanted to do. They wanted to be a writer, or a dancer, or a piano player in the Catskills. Someone didn't believe in them, and worse, they didn't know how to believe in themselves. "Just do it" is not so easy. Every step of the way we encounter obstacles. Money problems are predictable and unsubtle. Others are not so easy to recognize. Most people are intimidated by the arts. They think that there is something going on that they don't understand, can't understand. So they think they know what they "like." If it were only that easy.

Because people feel uncomfortable with the unknown, the uncertain, the undigested, the ineffable, and especially the unfathomable, they feel at a loss around art. They don't know what to do; they can't respond. The irony is that most artists will tell you that their work speaks for itself. Inotherwords, it is all right there in the work itself, that we need do nothing but let it speak to us. Critics are like the sorcerers who interpret oracles and dreams for their people; only THEY have the powers to unlock the magic. We give them that power. We invite them to inform us with their judgments so that we don't have to embarrass ourselves with our ignorance. The truth is, however, that we all have the power to not only experience art, but to make it as well. We have been duped into believing that there are standards by which art can be measured. We truly believe this. But how could we. Art is experience. Not judgment. Anyone can figure this our. Just look around you. The so-called experts agree on nothing.

The experience and expression of art is alive inside of all of us. Art is free, and within our grasp. We have but to believe, to reach down, and "just do it." The qualities expressed will be those appropriate to our circumstances, if we trust in them and ourselves. Who can truly say what is good or bad? We have forgotten that what matters is what is true, and that what is true in our hearts will always be good. I have seen so many students suffering because they could not hear their hearts for all the noise from their teachers, parents, and schoolmates. What a strange way to start a love affair with art. What a difficult place to find their voices. No wonder so many become silent. Think of all those we have been smothered in schools. Do we really want to hear the voices of only the strong that survive? Is this really Sparta, and not Avalon?

You say you lost your voice when you were a little kid. That not only did your parents not care who you were, they restricted you to such a degree that it prevented you from even being yourself despite their neglect. So much so that eventually you lost all hope of being that person and sharing what that meant with the ones you loved. And what's more is that you were convinced even at that tender age that you had a vision to share and that all around you were blind to it. They just thought you were weird, and a bit of a troublemaker with your ideas. So you made that sad and evil pact with yourself. You promised yourself that they would never know that person again, that you would hide yourself away and protect that self from them, and that they would never know your pain, they would never be given the satisfaction. You were that alone. And your plan was a success. They never knew. They never cared. In the end even you forgot what you had concealed. I am so sorry. Is there anything sadder?

My parents had their own personal style when it came to neglecting their children, but it did not include such severe control and restriction. It was more a kind of emotional selfishness. They just left us all with an overwhelming need to be loved, and a strong certainty that we didn't really deserve any. But my friend, you are lucky, because despite the adversity, the life wish inside you remained resolute. One of the saddest episodes in my life involved a student at a school where I was teaching in Vermont. A year after she was thrown out for smoking behind a dorm, along with an apparently informed suspicion that she was trafficking in drugs, she killed herself in her secret hiding place in the woods behind her parents house in New Hampshire. What she did to herself hurt me so badly that I had to blame everyone including myself, and I especially blamed her parents. She had one of these pillars for a mother, not unlike what yours sounds like. Demanding nothing less than perfection. Her perfection.

As with your story, I couldn't blame her anymore than I could blame you. Like you she was a victim. And like you she made a dark pact. But hers was a one shot deal. Like I said, you were lucky. You only killed yourself in the most important but not final sense. You can still come back, and both you and I know that it is not going to be easy. You, unlike my student, are afraid of death. I only wish she had been. But you face an uncertain fate. The operation might fail, and you might lose the you that you have come to accept. What is interesting is that the compromising self that you created demanded that the concealed self inside you match it ounce for ounce with an equal and opposite uncompromising self. Sooner or later that other self was going to rebel.

All I can think is that ultimately we have to be responsible for keeping our own voice, and for taking care of that voice. As harsh as that might sound, would we really want it any other way? Isn't this the price of free will, of freedom? Ultimately we must put any and all circumstance aside and recognize the power we have inside us. We have no choice but to roll with the punches. We have to risk knowing just what that power is made of, what we are made of, and share whatever that may be. For better or for worse. Whether or not it is received or how it is received. As difficult as that is, I think that it is much better than the alternative. And I really believe that we all have gifts, creative voices, powers inside us to share.

Addison Parks, Cambridge, 1991