I can't make a generalization but pride is an issue in Romania, especially considering the orthodox religion. There is this paradox. On the one hand people (some of them) are told and believe themselves to be humble when they go to church, sometimes even this is for appearances sake . But, pride makes itself felt, most of the time in a bad way (in my opinion), regarding material possessions. I know people that made quite a few financial sacrifices (less use of electricity, food restrictions etc) in order to have some elements of celebrities houses that are displayed on TV.
Also, there is this saying "După râs vine plâns/După râs vine și plânsul" (after laughter comes crying) that was repeated at least in the Moldavian side from earlier years. So, you can't laugh with your whole being, so to speak, because someone is there to remind you that the good mood won't last. I put it on the Balkan legacy - smiling on the street isn't seen as a good think :)
I always enjoy your TLS column, Irina, so it’s great to discover your writing here too. Love your ‘writing as baby’ analogy. My own Substack is still at the newborn stage - but like a baby it’s constantly getting more fun to engage with!
This reminds me of a couplet in an Avett Brothers song called "The Perfect Space": "I wanna have pride like my mother has, but not like the kind in the Bible that turns you bad." Something about that bifurcation of the word "pride" doesn't quite sit right with me, but can never put my finger on precisely why.
First, it’s always wonderful to see your writing. Not only does it make me think, but I also just enjoy your prose.
Personally I understand the wariness about pride, but as with most words it depends on what someone means by it. I wouldn’t call what I’m seeking “pride”; I’m after satisfaction. I seek the sense that I’ve created something meaningful to me. And I feel satisfied with what I’ve accomplished. It’s the sensation of completing a good run (no matter how fast or slow), or the way I feel when I do tai chi (which I’ve done on and off more than 35 years now). What gives me the most pleasure is joy in the thing itself, is the quality--to me--of the doing.
I think a big thing that makes this, for me, different from pride is that I can still feel good in the present about this I did in the past but could do with more polish now. That is, I don’t hate my previous writing; I’m still satisfied that I did it.
So I’m satisfied when I run though I’m certain I’ll never be as fast as I was. And my tai chi makes me wonderful even though I’m pretty sure I’ll never master it.
That said, I don’t begrudge others a sense of pride for what they’ve accomplished. I only don’t see it as the thing I’m after. It used to be, but I’m more content with myself when I let it go.
“ I’m not sure the attitude of mandatory self-abasement is that helpful.”
When we are confronting really brilliant literature, and we know that our own work will not be as good, we should not respond with self abasement. Because a person cannot be one of the all-time great‘s in a field that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t do their best and participate in the field anyway. If you have the capability to do it at all, and do you want to, and you can, why not do it? I have my literary heroes, and I know that the work I am currently moving forward, however slowly, will never match the best of what my literary heroes produced. But I’d rather be a minor member of that group, even a member of the group known only to myself, than not be in it at all. And I don’t think I do them or myself any service by not doing the best that I am capable of doing, however far it falls short of greatness. We should be inspired by our heroes, not intimidated by them and certainly not scared off entirely.
My version of this is: I've accepted I probably won't write like the authors I most admire. But I can hope, in my own way, to reach a few readers, some of the time, to connect to their experience or give them words for something they'd felt but not articulated. That, on its own, is so valuable that it's worth the effort.
Irina, when your latest came into my inbox, I realized I've missed hearing from your keyboard/pen/voice. I love how you began in that one visual moment of a tai-chi pose and the allusion to a proud rooster and moved across German, Romanian, Canadian and of course 'American' conceptions of pride. My own first thought was about collectivistic vs individualistic cultures and wondering that I'd have never considered Germany as a collectivistic culture (from the India/Asia lens) but certainly the German settlers of the Ohio river valley even today are far more collectivistic when compared to the 'American' individualistic mean!
Interestingly in Sanskrit or my own native Tamil, pride has a range of words that imply everything from arrogant (undesirable) to that of a parent (natural) and everything in between. Depending on our own individual journeys, and the people who've inhabited I find layers of meaning or insinuations have been laid on that single English word pride - so when any two people use it, it may not even be the same word they are using! Thank you as ever for brightening my morning!
Sri, thank you for your kind words, and also for the thoughts you offer. I do think the cultural difference is relative -- on a world scale, Germany is considered pretty individualistic, mainly because families are small and often live away from larger kin groups. But the words themselves are also broad brushes, and don't necessarily communicate the nuances of living in a place. Germans generally believe in a social support system and are willing to pay for it to an extent far beyond the US for example -- on the other hand, there are all sorts of everyday situations where people don't pay much attention to the needs of those around them. Then again, when the refugee crisis hit, there were so many donations and volunteers trying to help out that the local churches could barely handle it. So it's very much a mix.
I'm one who is wary of pride...so I can't agree with everything you suggest here. But this was well written and I think you make some great points. Loved reading this :)
I do have moments in my own writing where I feel that something is finished. I might not feel that it is perfect, but I feel that it captured the moment I was trying to capture. I love going back and re-reading my work. It helps me learn and grow, plus I'm able to let go in a way. Free space within myself. Thanks again for sharing your take. Can't wait to read more <3
Such a clear and welcome message here. Thanks for sharing it. I think the meaning of pride often shifts relative to power structures. At least in the U.S., I more often see unabashed pride among groups that have been historically marginalized (such as the Pride March). It is more difficult to celebrate anything conventionally white or masculine in that way. But I am proud of who I am as a father, and I typically don't put writing out into the world that I'll later regret. I appreciate your ownership of that pride at the end (it's quite the opposite of the school that encourages messy first drafts).
The puzzlement that propels your essay at the beginning is something I've always felt about Buddhism. There are aspects of that tradition that appeal to me, but the core tenet that desire is the source of all suffering has always baffled me. Perhaps I have a faulty grasp of nirvana, but it often seems more like ceasing to be than it does like being or becoming. It's possible to have high standards for oneself and to take satisfaction in accomplishment without veering into arrogance. Thanks again for these reminders!
Joshua, I set out to respond to @Irina, but your comment re Buddhism distracted me and I decided to address that first. [disclaimer: I claim no expertise in Buddhism (or the Bhagavad Gita that I'm about to quote :)] but here's a way to think about it:
- its hard to argue that desire is NOT the source of much of our unhappiness, esp. when we don't get what we want. Buddhism wants us to first recognize it and ideally avoid desire. However, rather than be devoid of desire (which I don't believe is humanly possible) the next best step is to be disconnected from the outcome of our attempts to achieve or fulfill that desire. This is essentially the core tenet of what the Bhagavad Gita teaches us.
Does this mean we take neither pride (in achieving our goal/desire) nor pain/disappointment in not achieving it? That's what both appear to teach.
With that said, my own take is what is it we are proud about - say a job well done (for ourselves, the way I preen myself for a smoothie well made or even with a well-diced red pumpkin (don't ask!) or is it because I want my wife to admire it? And do I berate myself if I don't do these well? And do either of these set us up for future cycles?
Sri, what you're getting at is something I've seen a number of writers talk about -- the discipline of working hard to meet a goal, but only really attaching to the goals that are under our own control. So: I can't control whether someone will want to publish what I write, whether readers will like it, want to pay for it or share it or even click "like." But I can control the writing of it.
Admittedly -- and I think everyone knows this -- this is very hard to do. But there are tricks that are helpful, like keeping logs of words written in physical form, or just finding ways to really take in the work as an accomplishment.
Irina, as always you've stated it far more practically than I'd have. So I'll fall back on the words of others for summarizing what Chap 2 verse 47 of the Gita says
"You have the right to work only but never to its fruits.
Let not the fruits of action be your motive, nor let your attachment be to inaction."
[notice the warning against throwing in the towel ie inaction or why bother? :)]
Reading your comment I realize that this lesson has come at me the hardest, as the parent of two young women. Whilst the wife and I tell ourselves, "we've equipped them well—with education, values and support," whenever those amazing young women insist on not only being independent, but at times exasperating and pig-headed, we repeat to ourselves that we only have right to the work and not to its outcomes. In many ways our words/blogs/books are such offspring over which we'd like to believe we have control, but all too often my characters too insist on doing their own thing. I'm learning and like to believe growing too :)
I’m late to return to this, but I quite take your point about not being able to control outcomes. Parenting, as you both say, is the ultimate proof of that.
However, I am a student of Willa Cather, and I agree with her that there is no art without desire. The same is true of family traditions, experiences I want my children to have in Montana, sense memories I want to plant in their memories so they have anchors for belonging later in life. Every gardener I know agrees: you can’t control the weather or all of the pests. But there is no point in gardening without big goals and without enormous pride in the successes and true heartache in the losses. I’d rather feel that full range.
No, but I suppose Godfrey St. Peter's conclusion at the end of that narrative that to live in the modern world he must learn to live without delight might apply.
I was thinking of The Song of the Lark and Lucy Gayheart. In TSOL, Thea Kronborg tells her mentor, Dr. Archie, that if she doesn't realize her dreams, she'll be an awful women -- the worst kind of woman. Her piano teacher is a failed artist, and he is named, portentously, Wunsch (German for "wish" or "desire"). Lucy Gayheart spends much of her life chasing a "fugitive gleam." She finds it, briefly, in a relationship with a famous singer. And then she finds it again after an epiphany while watching an aging singer perform.
Cather's artists play a high stakes lottery that I can't play, myself. They sacrifice everything in pursuit of their dreams, and so they must either find what they are looking for or crash in despair. I aim for a middle way, myself, knowing that my first calling is as a father and that I'll have to moderate my other ambitions accordingly. But like Cather I distrust serenity. Art springs from what Mikhail Baryshnikov calls a "divine instability." There's a void to fill, a hunger to sate, a rupture to heal, a trauma to piece back into order -- that's what art is for me. It's impossible to approach it without intense desire and real stakes in the outcome, even if I don't allow myself to be completely consumed by the pursuit.
Thank you for these suggestions -- I've ordered used copies of both books. God I love novels about artists, especially failed ones.
And I know what you mean about desire, I don't think it's possible to truly put it away -- or I should say, I find it madly difficult to do so. And I'm not sure I want to. I love being among ambitious people, and I love my own ambition too. But it's true that once one has commitments to other people -- especially kids -- some kind of middle way is necessary, at least if one knows what it means to have kids and not really take care of them. I want to write more but I'm nursing a cold.
Ah yes, here is the other thing -- kids need a lot of care when young, but they also need parents who know how to live for themselves, both as models and so as not to put undue pressure on the kids. I grew up among people who abandoned their intellectual and artistic dreams, and I've met more people like that along the way, and it's a bad place to be. It's actually not worth it. Better to stay up late now and then writing, or take a week away, or maybe not do every single possible "good parent" activity.
Exactly. Martyrdom is an equally terrible model for parenthood, even if some sacrifices are typically required. Perhaps after you read The Song of the Lark and Lucy Gayheart, I can share my essays on each. I trust that you'd appreciate the full scholarly versions rather than the lite adaptations I've posted on FB.
"they also need parents who know how to live for themselves" - you tell me this now?
Ironically when our kids were having the hardest times (adolescence grr) is when we were advised (and actually listened) to focus on some of our own stuff, both to recharge and handle/help the kids better and to model for them as you state. I grew up in a 'joint' or extended family where benign or healthy neglect by the parents was a feature and the cousins/aunts/uncles picked up some of the slack.
In my experience people/parents who abandon their dreams, end up being a huge burden on their children, either by projecting their dreams on to them or hanging so much guilt on them. As my own kids have grown up I've tried to work on our own things but often in the same room or act as accountability buddies so we get to do our own thing but yet there's a degree of shared 'doing' even if we are only doing our own thing! Great thoughts - loving this conversation.
Whoa, "But like Cather I distrust serenity." That stopped me right there.
My inner engineer says, "Serenity is rarely a state of permanent equilibrium (global minima for the nerds)." Sure that's goal to get there and stay there. But all too often, for most humans (and me) it's what physicists or mathematicians or thermodynamists would call a 'local minima' — it feels stable but you'll be rocked easily out of it by the pulls and pushes of everyday events. I'd argue a local minima, or a short burst of serenity such as you may feel after doing a hard hike to the peak and gazing up the wonder of the world that God has wrought, informs artists just as much as the "void to fill, a hunger to sate, a rupture to heal, a trauma to piece back" - you wouldn't be a poet would you? Damn @Joshua, you can write! and make your writing sing! Rock on!
Hmm, "local minima" is a new term. It recalls the emergence of the term "homeostasis" in physiology (not a fixed state, but a perpetual adaptation around a principle of equilibrium).
It's interesting -- Cather deeply admired people and cultural groups rooted in ritual. Her troubled artists always find refuge with such people -- the Kohlers for Thea Kronborg in The Song of the Lark. This also seems to align with her interest in Catholicism in her two historical novels. Yet for all his stoicism, Bishop Latour (in Death Comes for the Archbishop) is haunted his whole life by the idea for building a Midi Romanesque cathedral in the desert.
This raises a question (with apologies to Irina for hijacking the comment thread) about whether there is a difference between serenity and epiphany? Because the effect of the hike strikes me as more epiphanic (serenity feels more like a state of being than the temporary and unsustainable condition of awakening?). Many artists do indeed live for epiphany -- it is the only answer to the void and the hunger, even if it is fleeting. That's a very Romantic view, I know, and not shared universally by artists.
Thank you for this piece. I remember a professor in grad school telling us that we would look back on our early work in the program and cringe. Of course, he was projecting. He was also right. And yet those early writings were the foundation of later work. Even though I look at work from decades ago and roll my eyes, I also hear my voice, though it was much sharper and less skilled in expression. I’m proud of what I did, even if I see all the many flaws. I couldn’t have produced anything different at the time; it was what I knew as the person I was.
As I tell friends and colleagues, I’m proud of the work I’ve done, as a whole. Parts of it I wish not to look at again, but overall I look at it with satisfaction.
I still tell students a version of that professor’s advice, but add that they should understand it to mean that they will produce work that they should enjoy and share. And they will also become more skilled with practice, and as they learn more. They should embrace their voices.
I have reread your comment a few times, and wanted to add: when I read very old work I do have a sort of double experience of it. On the one hand: I see all the ways I would think through a problem differently, use language differently (usually: less jargon), and so on. But when it comes to research especially, I'm amazed at how much I used to know, at the ideas I once had. So I don't really cringe, because like you say -- I did the best I could with what I had back then.
It's harder with some more recent creative writing, because sometimes I do wonder if I will ever write as well again -- I'm not far enough from it to see the flaws.
Yes, when I have looked at old writings, I’ve seen a much more interesting or challenging set of views, more intricate research, more complex sentence structures, and so on. A former colleague once asked if we could return to a paper we’d written in grad school, because it was more relevant than other. I declined, mainly because a) I didn’t remember what we’d written, b) I think differently about some things thirty years later, c) I don’t have time, d) you get the idea. But it was gratifying to know that some earlier work was powerful enough to make this colleague want to take another pass at it.
I can't make a generalization but pride is an issue in Romania, especially considering the orthodox religion. There is this paradox. On the one hand people (some of them) are told and believe themselves to be humble when they go to church, sometimes even this is for appearances sake . But, pride makes itself felt, most of the time in a bad way (in my opinion), regarding material possessions. I know people that made quite a few financial sacrifices (less use of electricity, food restrictions etc) in order to have some elements of celebrities houses that are displayed on TV.
Also, there is this saying "După râs vine plâns/După râs vine și plânsul" (after laughter comes crying) that was repeated at least in the Moldavian side from earlier years. So, you can't laugh with your whole being, so to speak, because someone is there to remind you that the good mood won't last. I put it on the Balkan legacy - smiling on the street isn't seen as a good think :)
Thank you for this, Adela.
I always enjoy your TLS column, Irina, so it’s great to discover your writing here too. Love your ‘writing as baby’ analogy. My own Substack is still at the newborn stage - but like a baby it’s constantly getting more fun to engage with!
https://akennedysmith.substack.com/about
Thank you so much for these kind words, Ann!
You’re very welcome, Irina. Look forward to reading more of your posts in 2024.
This reminds me of a couplet in an Avett Brothers song called "The Perfect Space": "I wanna have pride like my mother has, but not like the kind in the Bible that turns you bad." Something about that bifurcation of the word "pride" doesn't quite sit right with me, but can never put my finger on precisely why.
First, it’s always wonderful to see your writing. Not only does it make me think, but I also just enjoy your prose.
Personally I understand the wariness about pride, but as with most words it depends on what someone means by it. I wouldn’t call what I’m seeking “pride”; I’m after satisfaction. I seek the sense that I’ve created something meaningful to me. And I feel satisfied with what I’ve accomplished. It’s the sensation of completing a good run (no matter how fast or slow), or the way I feel when I do tai chi (which I’ve done on and off more than 35 years now). What gives me the most pleasure is joy in the thing itself, is the quality--to me--of the doing.
I think a big thing that makes this, for me, different from pride is that I can still feel good in the present about this I did in the past but could do with more polish now. That is, I don’t hate my previous writing; I’m still satisfied that I did it.
So I’m satisfied when I run though I’m certain I’ll never be as fast as I was. And my tai chi makes me wonderful even though I’m pretty sure I’ll never master it.
That said, I don’t begrudge others a sense of pride for what they’ve accomplished. I only don’t see it as the thing I’m after. It used to be, but I’m more content with myself when I let it go.
Also let me clarify that I meant to direct this reply to Irina.
“ I’m not sure the attitude of mandatory self-abasement is that helpful.”
When we are confronting really brilliant literature, and we know that our own work will not be as good, we should not respond with self abasement. Because a person cannot be one of the all-time great‘s in a field that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t do their best and participate in the field anyway. If you have the capability to do it at all, and do you want to, and you can, why not do it? I have my literary heroes, and I know that the work I am currently moving forward, however slowly, will never match the best of what my literary heroes produced. But I’d rather be a minor member of that group, even a member of the group known only to myself, than not be in it at all. And I don’t think I do them or myself any service by not doing the best that I am capable of doing, however far it falls short of greatness. We should be inspired by our heroes, not intimidated by them and certainly not scared off entirely.
My version of this is: I've accepted I probably won't write like the authors I most admire. But I can hope, in my own way, to reach a few readers, some of the time, to connect to their experience or give them words for something they'd felt but not articulated. That, on its own, is so valuable that it's worth the effort.
I completely agree. This attitude can take some time -- and maturity, acceptance -- to cultivate though.
Irina, when your latest came into my inbox, I realized I've missed hearing from your keyboard/pen/voice. I love how you began in that one visual moment of a tai-chi pose and the allusion to a proud rooster and moved across German, Romanian, Canadian and of course 'American' conceptions of pride. My own first thought was about collectivistic vs individualistic cultures and wondering that I'd have never considered Germany as a collectivistic culture (from the India/Asia lens) but certainly the German settlers of the Ohio river valley even today are far more collectivistic when compared to the 'American' individualistic mean!
Interestingly in Sanskrit or my own native Tamil, pride has a range of words that imply everything from arrogant (undesirable) to that of a parent (natural) and everything in between. Depending on our own individual journeys, and the people who've inhabited I find layers of meaning or insinuations have been laid on that single English word pride - so when any two people use it, it may not even be the same word they are using! Thank you as ever for brightening my morning!
Sri, thank you for your kind words, and also for the thoughts you offer. I do think the cultural difference is relative -- on a world scale, Germany is considered pretty individualistic, mainly because families are small and often live away from larger kin groups. But the words themselves are also broad brushes, and don't necessarily communicate the nuances of living in a place. Germans generally believe in a social support system and are willing to pay for it to an extent far beyond the US for example -- on the other hand, there are all sorts of everyday situations where people don't pay much attention to the needs of those around them. Then again, when the refugee crisis hit, there were so many donations and volunteers trying to help out that the local churches could barely handle it. So it's very much a mix.
I'm one who is wary of pride...so I can't agree with everything you suggest here. But this was well written and I think you make some great points. Loved reading this :)
I do have moments in my own writing where I feel that something is finished. I might not feel that it is perfect, but I feel that it captured the moment I was trying to capture. I love going back and re-reading my work. It helps me learn and grow, plus I'm able to let go in a way. Free space within myself. Thanks again for sharing your take. Can't wait to read more <3
Yes, what you're describing is really what I was trying to get at. "This is done, it's ok as it is."
Such a clear and welcome message here. Thanks for sharing it. I think the meaning of pride often shifts relative to power structures. At least in the U.S., I more often see unabashed pride among groups that have been historically marginalized (such as the Pride March). It is more difficult to celebrate anything conventionally white or masculine in that way. But I am proud of who I am as a father, and I typically don't put writing out into the world that I'll later regret. I appreciate your ownership of that pride at the end (it's quite the opposite of the school that encourages messy first drafts).
The puzzlement that propels your essay at the beginning is something I've always felt about Buddhism. There are aspects of that tradition that appeal to me, but the core tenet that desire is the source of all suffering has always baffled me. Perhaps I have a faulty grasp of nirvana, but it often seems more like ceasing to be than it does like being or becoming. It's possible to have high standards for oneself and to take satisfaction in accomplishment without veering into arrogance. Thanks again for these reminders!
Joshua, I set out to respond to @Irina, but your comment re Buddhism distracted me and I decided to address that first. [disclaimer: I claim no expertise in Buddhism (or the Bhagavad Gita that I'm about to quote :)] but here's a way to think about it:
- its hard to argue that desire is NOT the source of much of our unhappiness, esp. when we don't get what we want. Buddhism wants us to first recognize it and ideally avoid desire. However, rather than be devoid of desire (which I don't believe is humanly possible) the next best step is to be disconnected from the outcome of our attempts to achieve or fulfill that desire. This is essentially the core tenet of what the Bhagavad Gita teaches us.
Does this mean we take neither pride (in achieving our goal/desire) nor pain/disappointment in not achieving it? That's what both appear to teach.
With that said, my own take is what is it we are proud about - say a job well done (for ourselves, the way I preen myself for a smoothie well made or even with a well-diced red pumpkin (don't ask!) or is it because I want my wife to admire it? And do I berate myself if I don't do these well? And do either of these set us up for future cycles?
Sri, what you're getting at is something I've seen a number of writers talk about -- the discipline of working hard to meet a goal, but only really attaching to the goals that are under our own control. So: I can't control whether someone will want to publish what I write, whether readers will like it, want to pay for it or share it or even click "like." But I can control the writing of it.
Admittedly -- and I think everyone knows this -- this is very hard to do. But there are tricks that are helpful, like keeping logs of words written in physical form, or just finding ways to really take in the work as an accomplishment.
Irina, as always you've stated it far more practically than I'd have. So I'll fall back on the words of others for summarizing what Chap 2 verse 47 of the Gita says
"You have the right to work only but never to its fruits.
Let not the fruits of action be your motive, nor let your attachment be to inaction."
[notice the warning against throwing in the towel ie inaction or why bother? :)]
Reading your comment I realize that this lesson has come at me the hardest, as the parent of two young women. Whilst the wife and I tell ourselves, "we've equipped them well—with education, values and support," whenever those amazing young women insist on not only being independent, but at times exasperating and pig-headed, we repeat to ourselves that we only have right to the work and not to its outcomes. In many ways our words/blogs/books are such offspring over which we'd like to believe we have control, but all too often my characters too insist on doing their own thing. I'm learning and like to believe growing too :)
The beautiful thing about children is that you never really know the result, because they, too, keep growing (or should).
Link to source I quoted
https://vivekavani.com/b2v47/
I’m late to return to this, but I quite take your point about not being able to control outcomes. Parenting, as you both say, is the ultimate proof of that.
However, I am a student of Willa Cather, and I agree with her that there is no art without desire. The same is true of family traditions, experiences I want my children to have in Montana, sense memories I want to plant in their memories so they have anchors for belonging later in life. Every gardener I know agrees: you can’t control the weather or all of the pests. But there is no point in gardening without big goals and without enormous pride in the successes and true heartache in the losses. I’d rather feel that full range.
Are you thinking of The Professor's House, Joshua?
No, but I suppose Godfrey St. Peter's conclusion at the end of that narrative that to live in the modern world he must learn to live without delight might apply.
I was thinking of The Song of the Lark and Lucy Gayheart. In TSOL, Thea Kronborg tells her mentor, Dr. Archie, that if she doesn't realize her dreams, she'll be an awful women -- the worst kind of woman. Her piano teacher is a failed artist, and he is named, portentously, Wunsch (German for "wish" or "desire"). Lucy Gayheart spends much of her life chasing a "fugitive gleam." She finds it, briefly, in a relationship with a famous singer. And then she finds it again after an epiphany while watching an aging singer perform.
Cather's artists play a high stakes lottery that I can't play, myself. They sacrifice everything in pursuit of their dreams, and so they must either find what they are looking for or crash in despair. I aim for a middle way, myself, knowing that my first calling is as a father and that I'll have to moderate my other ambitions accordingly. But like Cather I distrust serenity. Art springs from what Mikhail Baryshnikov calls a "divine instability." There's a void to fill, a hunger to sate, a rupture to heal, a trauma to piece back into order -- that's what art is for me. It's impossible to approach it without intense desire and real stakes in the outcome, even if I don't allow myself to be completely consumed by the pursuit.
Thank you for these suggestions -- I've ordered used copies of both books. God I love novels about artists, especially failed ones.
And I know what you mean about desire, I don't think it's possible to truly put it away -- or I should say, I find it madly difficult to do so. And I'm not sure I want to. I love being among ambitious people, and I love my own ambition too. But it's true that once one has commitments to other people -- especially kids -- some kind of middle way is necessary, at least if one knows what it means to have kids and not really take care of them. I want to write more but I'm nursing a cold.
Ah yes, here is the other thing -- kids need a lot of care when young, but they also need parents who know how to live for themselves, both as models and so as not to put undue pressure on the kids. I grew up among people who abandoned their intellectual and artistic dreams, and I've met more people like that along the way, and it's a bad place to be. It's actually not worth it. Better to stay up late now and then writing, or take a week away, or maybe not do every single possible "good parent" activity.
Exactly. Martyrdom is an equally terrible model for parenthood, even if some sacrifices are typically required. Perhaps after you read The Song of the Lark and Lucy Gayheart, I can share my essays on each. I trust that you'd appreciate the full scholarly versions rather than the lite adaptations I've posted on FB.
"they also need parents who know how to live for themselves" - you tell me this now?
Ironically when our kids were having the hardest times (adolescence grr) is when we were advised (and actually listened) to focus on some of our own stuff, both to recharge and handle/help the kids better and to model for them as you state. I grew up in a 'joint' or extended family where benign or healthy neglect by the parents was a feature and the cousins/aunts/uncles picked up some of the slack.
In my experience people/parents who abandon their dreams, end up being a huge burden on their children, either by projecting their dreams on to them or hanging so much guilt on them. As my own kids have grown up I've tried to work on our own things but often in the same room or act as accountability buddies so we get to do our own thing but yet there's a degree of shared 'doing' even if we are only doing our own thing! Great thoughts - loving this conversation.
Whoa, "But like Cather I distrust serenity." That stopped me right there.
My inner engineer says, "Serenity is rarely a state of permanent equilibrium (global minima for the nerds)." Sure that's goal to get there and stay there. But all too often, for most humans (and me) it's what physicists or mathematicians or thermodynamists would call a 'local minima' — it feels stable but you'll be rocked easily out of it by the pulls and pushes of everyday events. I'd argue a local minima, or a short burst of serenity such as you may feel after doing a hard hike to the peak and gazing up the wonder of the world that God has wrought, informs artists just as much as the "void to fill, a hunger to sate, a rupture to heal, a trauma to piece back" - you wouldn't be a poet would you? Damn @Joshua, you can write! and make your writing sing! Rock on!
Hmm, "local minima" is a new term. It recalls the emergence of the term "homeostasis" in physiology (not a fixed state, but a perpetual adaptation around a principle of equilibrium).
It's interesting -- Cather deeply admired people and cultural groups rooted in ritual. Her troubled artists always find refuge with such people -- the Kohlers for Thea Kronborg in The Song of the Lark. This also seems to align with her interest in Catholicism in her two historical novels. Yet for all his stoicism, Bishop Latour (in Death Comes for the Archbishop) is haunted his whole life by the idea for building a Midi Romanesque cathedral in the desert.
This raises a question (with apologies to Irina for hijacking the comment thread) about whether there is a difference between serenity and epiphany? Because the effect of the hike strikes me as more epiphanic (serenity feels more like a state of being than the temporary and unsustainable condition of awakening?). Many artists do indeed live for epiphany -- it is the only answer to the void and the hunger, even if it is fleeting. That's a very Romantic view, I know, and not shared universally by artists.
Thank you for this piece. I remember a professor in grad school telling us that we would look back on our early work in the program and cringe. Of course, he was projecting. He was also right. And yet those early writings were the foundation of later work. Even though I look at work from decades ago and roll my eyes, I also hear my voice, though it was much sharper and less skilled in expression. I’m proud of what I did, even if I see all the many flaws. I couldn’t have produced anything different at the time; it was what I knew as the person I was.
As I tell friends and colleagues, I’m proud of the work I’ve done, as a whole. Parts of it I wish not to look at again, but overall I look at it with satisfaction.
I still tell students a version of that professor’s advice, but add that they should understand it to mean that they will produce work that they should enjoy and share. And they will also become more skilled with practice, and as they learn more. They should embrace their voices.
I have reread your comment a few times, and wanted to add: when I read very old work I do have a sort of double experience of it. On the one hand: I see all the ways I would think through a problem differently, use language differently (usually: less jargon), and so on. But when it comes to research especially, I'm amazed at how much I used to know, at the ideas I once had. So I don't really cringe, because like you say -- I did the best I could with what I had back then.
It's harder with some more recent creative writing, because sometimes I do wonder if I will ever write as well again -- I'm not far enough from it to see the flaws.
Yes, when I have looked at old writings, I’ve seen a much more interesting or challenging set of views, more intricate research, more complex sentence structures, and so on. A former colleague once asked if we could return to a paper we’d written in grad school, because it was more relevant than other. I declined, mainly because a) I didn’t remember what we’d written, b) I think differently about some things thirty years later, c) I don’t have time, d) you get the idea. But it was gratifying to know that some earlier work was powerful enough to make this colleague want to take another pass at it.
Loved reading this. Won't bother you with my really bad haikus though. 🤲🏾🤲🏾