The Experience of Art

"I just don't experience art the way you do." This is what my husband says often when I rave about a song, a painting, a film, a book. I do this often, feeling coursing through my veins as I extoll the virtues of a given work. I connect with art, with creation, in an intense way. He doesn't.

This summer is the summer of shows for us, it seems. First there was Gregory Alan Isakov in a cave. Then Wu-Tang Clan at the Ryman (!!!!). I found myself on a Bonnaroo adventure last weekend and watched, most notably, Childish Gambino.

Last night was something different, though, something special. A few years ago, in the midst of the great divorce between me and all those miles on the bike, I was seeking. My rudder was knocked off by utter exhaustion, and I needed to repair it so I could find my way again. I picked up Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love, and something about the story resonated with me. Much about the story resonated with me. A deep intonation that quieted the panic at my lack of health and certainty. I finished the book, and read interviews upon interviews with Liz. What vibrated the most was this idea that we are in charge of our own vision quest, and regardless of budget, time, resources, we can find ourselves.

I went on that vision quest, and maybe I'm still riding that wave. The quest doesn't end, much in the same way the layers of proprioception in yoga peel back only to reveal another. I am, each of us are, Russian nesting dolls. What's your kernel like? You won't know if you don't dig.

How can I describe sitting in the same room as my idol? When I was in high school, I went on a trip to Europe. Hearing Elizabeth Gilbert speak, to be privy to her reading of City of Girls, was like seeing the Mona Lisa in person, across the crowded gallery, or standing in the Sistine Chapel. This person who has created so much magic, and there she was in an auditorium in Nashville. How could I be so lucky?

After her reading, which was a sheer delight, she offered Q&A, which was even more delightful. Of course. Questions surrounded the matter of creativity, process, and embracing your own eccentricity and right to exist as your accepted self. I was moved to tears when she responded to a question at length about her now-defunct podcast, and why she no longer records episodes. She said, "There's only one reason people don't do the creative thing they want to do, and that is fear."

My current has been filled with fear lately. Fear of mediocrity. Fear of lack of success. Fear of sharing. Fear of putting words on paper because they'll sound trite and novitiate. I've been a boarded up Victorian house, ramshackle boards criss-crossing the windows, ghosts rattling the floorboards, with the bushes growing high at the front to hide myself. I came, I shared, and then I went into hiding.

At the Wu-Tang show, they played an intro with quotes dubbed in, and one I can't place stuck with me.
"You know, anybody can rhyme, but it's what you say that make people know about you."
Look, I don't want to make this a random collection of quotes, but I could go on and on. This brings me to the final question of the night, and Liz's answer. The question regarded our essential humanity and sexuality, but her response circled back around to creativity in such a beautiful way. I think our creativity is far too tangled with these other ideas to ever find the end of any string.
"What the universe seems to want is constant creative response. It's always growing and creating... It's not Creation, capital C, it's creating, and we are part of creating." 
It's quintessential to our nature, our elevated consciousness and awareness, to create. To make simple things beautiful.

So pardon me while I rip the boards off the windows and replace the curtains, repair the roof and make friends with the ghosts in the parlor. It's time to move with the Universe and create. Maybe someday I can also pack an auditorium.