Storm and Stress
First off, let's get the orange elephant in the room out of the way - most of what follows was written before November 5th. I don't know if that makes any difference or not, but I feel like I should mention it, for the sake of transparency.
I don't know if you've been following the news lately, but there are two or three wars going on right now. An election is underway for our friends in the Land of the Free, and it looks increasingly likely that the Fascists are going to prevail. In our own country an election is also on the horizon, through it's anybody's guess as to when, with a choice between bad and terrible (I'll leave it to you to decide which is which). The planet continues to burn, unabated, as the self-interest of a few damns the future of billions. And art-making, that thing I love to do that sustains me more than oxygen, is still being defined by others, who do not make much art, in nothing but dollars and cents.
Most people would say that I should just turn off the news, and just stick to making art. Let the chips fall where they may, there's nothing you can do about the great crises engulfing the world except do what you can to stop making them worse, and survive them. Good advice, I'm sure. Practical advice? Not so much.
The problem with my art-making is that the art I make doesn't exist in a vaccuum. I am keenly aware of the other, the audience, the person casting suspicous glances at me across the coffee shop, determined to ignore me. I can't ignore the fact that my own gaze is drawn outward, voyeuristicly, into the world. I want to know what the grumpy old man picking up a well-worn copy of the Toronto Sun is looking for. Does he want to read the news, do the Sudoku, or ogle the Sunshine Girl? Or does he just want to read the paper in peace, and not think about whatever has brought him here, alone, at least for a little while.
I want to know things that I'm not supposed to know - that's the Faustus in me, I suppose. It didn't end well for him, yet I seem unable to learn the lesson from his tale. I want to know what the baristas behind the counter are arguing about with such volume and sincerity, but I don't understand their language. Probably something about a distant cousin, or a sports team, something utterly banal and pointless - unlike Faustus, who reveled in his forbidden knowledge, I would be disappointed to find out that they're only talking about what colour socks they wish they were wearing.
Despite this, I am finding some comfort in retreating into art. My current play, provisionally titled "Home Sweet Home," is providing some respite from the horrors of the world. This is a fairly new sensation for me, or perhaps I'm now simply conscious of it for the first time. I write a scene (it seems to be coming to me one disjointed piece at a time) and I am able to cover myself in the story, just barely, like a threadbare blanket on a cold winter's night, not much, but if I'm careful it's just enough to provide some comfort. Scene selection is critical - I have to write whatever scene best serves the mood I'm in, and I need to be careful not to bite off more than I can chew. The ending of this play, like many of my plays, is proving problematic - everyone wants something different, and I don't know which one(s), if any, are going to get it. But in that process of discovery I can find some shelter from the storm and stress of the world, without turning off from it, and perhaps, just perhaps, that is going to be enough to get me through.
I hope I'm wrong, but I feel like there are more dark days ahead. Foreign wars will come home, unthinkable governance will become normalized, death will stalk an ever-increasing number of people on an increasingly unliveable planet. Willful ignorance of it all will only grow stronger, for as long as those of us who have the privilege to do so remain unencumbered. Some will want to build bunkers to escape all of this. Some will want to ride on billionaire's rocket ships to new homes somewhere else. I have recourse to neither option, nor any others, save one. I can still make art.
Comments