the Hail Mary pass

I've been thinking about art lately.  I suppose to some extent I'm always thinking about art, but more recently I've been mulling over specifics, and my thoughts have led me down some pretty deep rabbit holes.  I am both a fan and student of the art world, and I include all of the arts in that statement.  I studied visual art, am a practicing musician, writer and designer, and have always appreciated dance, theater and opera as extreme examples of human brilliance and discipline.  One of the greatest gifts that I received from my mother is a love and interest for all of the aforementioned forms of expression.  It is, in my opinion, humans at our finest.

To speak on the arts is too general, so I'll hone in here.  I'm a longtime fan of Andy Warhol's work.  His entire movement, and the players within it, have always fascinated me.  I find his approach to have been both genius and mystifying.  He was clinical yet passionate, giving us pieces that vibrate with color and seize your attention with their exacting, high-contrast presence.  For all that I've read, seen and studied about him, I've never grown tired of the information or the imagery.  My living room speaks to that truth, as almost every surface references him in some way, whether subtle or obvious.  He was a person who literally founded an entire multi-genre art scene in New York over a few short decades, and we are still captivated by it today.  His peers were countless, but among them were Keith Haring, Jean-Michel Basquiat, David Byrne, Debbie Harry, John Waters and Robert Mappelthorpe.  Robert Mappelthorpe.  I started hearing that name young.  My mom liked his work and shared it with me and my brother before we were old enough to comprehend the intensity of it all.  My mom is like that, and that is a wonderful way to be.  Before your mind develops fears, judgments and biases, it's much more open.  When music and art enter such a pure mind, it does beautiful things with that information.  So, Mappelthorpe's iconic and graphic imagery entered my child mind and all I saw were humans and shapes and contrasts.  His work has remained that way for me for all of these years, until recently.

I read Patti Smith's autobiographical book Just Kids over the summer.  It had been recommended to me by many people whose opinions I hold in high esteem, and the premise sounded lovely.  I knew that she and Robert had been romantically and creatively linked early on, and thought that the book would be illuminating and exciting to read.  I expected to feel some grief, of course, as he's now been dead for twenty-two years, but I didn't expect to feel all of the other things I felt as I made my way through the pages.  The book chronicles the friendship, love affair and collaboration of Patti and Robert from the time they met in 1967 to the end of his life in 1989.  They met in New York after having recently moved there from their respective homes in Pennsylvania and New Jersey.  They were both about twenty years old at the time.  Her writing is stunning, and it is clear from the outset that the words are crafted both technically and emotionally.  Her memory is amazing, and she recounts every detail of the rooms, faces and feelings.  It is a work of brave self-exposure and I admire that very much.  However, I didn't root for every character.  And I thought that I would root for every character.

I'm changing, it would seem.  Time was, I'd have read all about the desperate behaviors, seedy hotels and blurred lines and thought nothing of it.  I might even have glorified it all and chalked the collective brilliance up to the collective dysfunction.  But, not today.  Today it sounds awful and sad and damaging. Today it sounds like a whole lot of people wanted some unattainable thing and they all thought Warhol held the Golden Ticket.  Today it sounds like a bunch of people not unlike my own generation who were trying to help themselves to a serving of Life, but managed to hurt everyone in the process of doing so.  They weren't special.  They were people.  Yes, some of them made incredible art and music, but so do some of us.  They cheated on each other, lied to themselves, hurt their bodies, and broke their hearts... Just like we do.

We look at the past because those Polaroids are already developed.  The pictures and words exist, and we search for bits of ourselves in those faces and phrases.  We do.  Since I can remember, I've listened to music, read liner notes, gone to museums, opera houses, rock shows, lectures, classes and libraries.  I knew that I wanted to create, and set out to soak up all that I could of what had already been created.  I don't regret any of my education, whether it was in a scholastic setting or not.  I'm the better for learning, and I hope that I never stop.  But, how do I reconcile these expectations of mine that great art must come from greatness?  And more importantly, how will I let myself off of that hook?  I'm already not great.  I've already blown it.  I've lied, behaved dishonorably, made shitty work, given up on other people and myself, burnt cookies...  I've already blown it.  But, my heart sings songs to me.  I hear music when the room is silent and see dresses with clouds in their hems.  I imagine Hawaiian fantasies set to my brother's drumming, and colors more vibrant than those of tropical flowers.  I look into Sylvia Plath's dark eyes and know I owe her something in my lifetime.  Am I allowed those things if I've already blown it?  How many Hail Mary's do I have to say before I'm absolved of who I've been, so that I might go on to make great things?

You see, I didn't root for Robert Mappelthorpe because I don't root for myself.

I walk among greatness.  My loved ones are all making work, and some of it is mind-blowing.  And some of my outer community of peers are brilliant.  And some of them are assholes.  And some of them have drug problems and personality disorders.  And some of them are doing irreparable damage to their lives.  And some of them will be famous.  And some of them will be in books.  And some of them will die. 

Truth be told, I'd have been too afraid to go to the Factory and I know it.  I could never have hung at the Chelsea Hotel, nor bothered with Max's Kansas City.  If I were alive then, and living in New York, I'd have been sitting in my apartment with a guitar, contemplating cutting my hair, wanting no part of the party or the parade.  Because that's who I am.  God bless Edie Sedgwick and Nico, man.  They look lovely in all of that footage, but their lives were hard and short.  I don't want that ending.  My beginnings were already hard, and I don't want that to be my whole story.  If I make it into anyone's book, I want to be rooted for.  That's all.  I want to be someone to root for.  And maybe I'll stumble onto greatness along the way.

Thanks for listening,
buick audra