The Highest Form of Hope

Yesterday I finished My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok (It was recommended to me three times by three different people, on three separate occasions so I figured I had to read it).  The story is about a young Hasidic Jewish boy with a gift for art.  The plot follows the development of this gift, as well as the widening rift the gift creates between Asher and his family, and the Hasidic community.   The novel takes place in the fifties and sixties, when Picasso was still God.  Asher’s mentor, Jacob Kahn an abstract expressionist sculpture, is a prime example of the “modern artist”; and for the most part, Asher Lev’s inner dialogue seems modernist as well.   Individualism and self –expression, drive the modernist view of art; art is about expressing feelings, often in a compulsive, immediate way.  Modernists saw their art as the pinnacle of art history, and as such all connections with community, religion, or family could be sacrificed on the altar of such a high calling.  Unfortunately for the modernists, their two most cherished values (authentic self-expression, and individualism) probably encouraged the public to loose interest in the “high arts”.

Though self-expression is certainly from one of the wells to draw from in terms of creativity, it is only one.  I think modern art led us down a dangerous path, the path toward the arts loosing their voice, their meaning in society.   If art is self-expression, what does art have to say to ME the viewer?  Why is it even important?  Why is it a discipline?  Why does it require skill, planning thought, communication (all these things modernist painters possessed but perhaps minimized the importance of).   

I remember a time when I was asked to produce a drawing in honor of that year’s high school graduates at a celebration put on by my church youth group.  It was one of those “draw a picture to music” types of things that were all the rage at the time.  And no, I didn’t do the drawing as spontaneously as appeared.  I listened to the music before hand and did a couple of sketches to make sure I knew what I wanted to accomplish.  I drew two candles, one lit and one blown out with smoke still rising from the wick to represent the passing from one stage of life to another (I impressed my 15-year-old self with this metaphor – a bit of a 90’s “gothism”, but pleasing nonetheless).  I did the drawing, the guests at the celebration seemed impressed, and I was told it would be framed and hung and the youth room.  A few months later, I found my drawing crumpled in the corner of the Sunday school storage room.  As I’m sure you could imagine, I was a little hurt that my drawing was so easily tossed aside.  In all likelihood it was probably innocently misplaced and forgotten about – that tends to happen in Sunday school storage rooms!  But why shouldn’t it have been?  Apparently, from my “performance” that evening, I had produced this drawing as a spontaneous creation of self expression, pulling it off in less than twenty minutes to represent a moment that had long since passed.  I’m not trying to be hard on 15-year-old self, but I’m not surprised that the drawing wasn’t valued.   I didn’t value it much either since I left the drawing where I found it and didn’t tell anyone about the whole experience.  After all, such things are to be expected when you are an artist and are ALONE (it’s no wonder I considered becoming a Goth!).

Have you ever heard the phrase, “To be an artist is to be alone?”  I have. And this is the general feeling I was left with when I closed My Name is Asher Lev.  Surely this can’t be true.  If it is, then I suppose the artists of this world must continue to create without relevance, without a voice, without anything to say other than “these are my feelings”.   I simply can’t believe that.  That’s not to say I think artists should dumb things down for the public; but I do think that they (and galleries, educators, publishers and the like) have the responsibility to communicate why art is important, why art is more than just feelings on a canvas.   To not at least attempt do so is unethical, and frankly lazy.  I personally think artists have realized this… and things are changing, albeit slowly. 

My name is Jessica Morgun and these are my feelings about art.  

Labels: aesthetics, art, books, modern art, society

Labels: art

So today I'm bragging about my little brother (though he's not so little I suppose) Matt Wall.  He is currently in Honduras setting up a pilot project for Urban Promise (check out what they're about here).  Matt is one of those lucky people who's most recent passport is stamped many more times than all three of mine put together.  He's lived in Bostwana, visited Northern Ireland, the Philippines, Mexico and all around central america... and there's more I believe, but I can't keep track.  And he wasn't sightseeing either, he was working - I know because he took zero pictures while he was in these countries!  Now he's working to set up an Urban Promise program in Honduras.  Urban Promise is an organization Matt's been involved with for some time now, and it's exciting to see that he's laying foundations for something completely new in Honduras.   So check out their blog, there's less cats than Matt's previous blog, but it's still a good read!  

Since I have the time, while sitting in bed being sick, I thought I'd share with you something that has made the last few days a little brighter for me...  The last time I read through this list of unfortunate Valentines Day cards I had mascara running all over and down my face due to the gut wrenching, nausea inducing, headache irritating laugher.  But in case you're not convinced, I'll let you see the cards and read the lister's commentary on a couple of my favorites.

 

"If I had my choice you'd be first," but look at me. Am I ever really likely to have my choice? It doesn't seem likely. My giant hideous eyes are set really far apart, my head is as big and round as a elementary school gym class kickball, I have two nostrils but no nose, and my knees have strange lines on them. I'll be lucky to find any valentine, let alone my first choice. It's a tough life for a pseudo Campbell's soup kid. A tough life indeed. Hello I'm Batman.  When I was just a child, my parents were murdered right in front of my eyes.  I made a solemn vow that day to commit my life to fighting crime.  I've sacrificed my childhood and any efforts toward personal enjoyment.  My nights are spent in deadly combat with everything from common street thugs to grotesque psychopaths.  What little sleep I ever get is usually interrupted by horrible nightmares and my waking up in a cold sweat.  I fight a war that can never be won.  I strive toward a goal that can never be reached.  I am haunted.  I am relentless.  I am tortured.   Won't you be my valentine? How is this read? We would make a happy pear. OR We would make a happy mutant freak with a repulsive, oversized fruit for a head that enjoys sailor suits and pie. Also, the pear-monster doesn't look happy to me at all.  But then, why should he?

Labels: humor, unfortunate, Valentines

Labels: family, love, marriage, relationship, Valentines

Labels: art

Labels: art, books, graphic novels, illustration

Billboard in Japan translated: "Add Space for Rent"

Labels: consumerism, culture