I know, the next post was supposed to be sibs, part deux. And here I've gone and let myself be distracted by two totally unrelated topics. I don't care. I'm driving this bus, dangit!
So, tonight I was riding my (new) bike to work, and as I was stopped at an intersection waiting for a green light, some guy in one of those ginormous 3000-passenger vans poked his head out the passenger side window and yelled "wear a helmet" at me.
Admittedly he's right. I should be wearing a helmet. I don't deny that. But I haven't had a bike in 15 years, which means I haven't had a helmet, and I just haven't purchased one yet. I will. Soon. I concede the point. But that's not what this post is about.
Can I propose that it's bad form, disrespectful, and entirely unmannered to ever yell out the window of your car at anyone for any reason? And can we all just stop it? This is not the first time this has happened to me. When I used to run on the street, it was not infrequent that someone would scream at me as they passed. What is the purpose of that other than to make someone else anxious and unsettled? And why would anyone want to create those feelings in others for the terribly small reward of...what exactly? Don't yell at pedestrians or cyclists or anyone else. Just because you are swiftly receding into the horizon and you will not have to face your victim does not make it okay.
And to the man who hollered at me to wear a helmet, and anyone who might consider themselves doing something similar thinking they are being virtuous and kind by saving us unhelmet-ed masses from ourselves: The tone and delivery of the message often becomes the message. By shouting at me as you sped by, young man, the message you perhaps hoped to deliver was reduced to "I disrespect you," and everything you said was entirely lost. By the way, you shouldn't throw things at anyone or anything from a moving car either, and the fact that this needs to be explained to anyone over the age of about four disturbs me. And yet it seems to continue to be necessary. Thank God there is such beauty and joy in the world; without it all the meanness and stupidity would be unbearable.
In happier news, my inaugural eggplants are thriving, and they've put on their first blossoms, which indicates fruit, which makes me so happy. I love my funny little garden so much. And, the lovely hummingbird who visits my garden flew right up to me at the window today. I stood entirely still, and she just hovered facing me, right at eye level, only a foot from me. So lovely. Sometimes I think if I couldn't grow things I would wither away and die. May I never have to find out.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Art, entertainment, and the lowest common denominator
I was at work tonight, thinking about art. Yes, I got all philosophical and stuff. What precipitated this reverie was my work assignment tonight. As part of my job, I regularly host performances at the new stage at our City Center Park. We have a summer concert series that stretches from the end of May almost to September. It's a great addition to our city, and I enjoy hosting these programs. Getting paid to enjoy music on beautiful summer evenings? Admittedly a sweet gig, even if I do have to fake being a sound operator from time to time.
Tonight, a new band was playing. This was their first gig outside of a house show they did recently. Originally, the young woman's other band, a wedding band that plays covers of Etta James, Elvis, Coldplay, etc., was scheduled to play. It was posted on the website, and several of the groups that came tonight were expecting to rock out to "Yellow" and "At Last." The keyboardist for the wedding band was unexpectedly out of the country, so the woman brought her other band instead. This was a trio that performed original songs, and had an indie folk/alt pop feel with an little electonica/classical thrown in to keep everyone on their toes.
Let me stop here and offer this admission--I understand that if you were expecting to come to a performance of oldies covers and you got the performance that the audience enjoyed tonight you might be disappointed. I'm not trying to pick on folks who felt betrayed by the apparent bait-and-switch. But it got me thinking about bigger issues in art--like what is the value of being entertained by art? How invested should an artist be in giving an audience what they want? If an artist is dedicated to self-expression rather than pleasing audiences, is that art valuable? And if it is valuable, how do we sustain it if people are unwilling to pay for it?
I think I likely enjoyed tonight's performance better than what was originally planned. I'm sure the wedding band is fine, but part of the purpose for this concert series is to nurture local artists, not just provide free summer entertainment. The set tonight was entirely original songs but one, a Sufjan Stevens cover. It's not everyone's cup of tea, but both singers had exceptional voices and were clearly accomplished musicians and writers, and their performance evoked that sense of self-expression that I think excludes most cover bands from a place at the "art" table.
Is that horribly elitist of me? It's not that I don't think a cover of a song be could be art. It's just that most aren't. I think it may be harder to take someone else's song and perform it in such a way that it becomes a work of art, self-expression and all, than it is just to write and perform your own songs. I guess I frequently see songwriters as true artists, and have greater respect for them in that role than I do performers who interpret other's works. Painters who copy the masters are not masters themselves.
And yet, I find that contradictory when it's extrapolated to other mediums. For example, I would consider a great actor an artist, although in most cases actors are speaking lines they did not write and following directions they did not give. I guess I see actors as collaborators in the creative process. They have the opportunity to create the physical presence of the character on stage or on film and can bring their own unique spirit to the role. Hamlet has been played thousands of times, and the best actors create a new version of him that illuminates some aspect of the themes of that play. Those actors are artists.
On the flip side of that coin, not every songwriter is an artist. Apologies to her fans, but I wouldn't classify Taylor Swift as an artist. This is where the lowest common denominator comes in. Swift's songwriting feels like a commercial venture more than an expression of her own philosophies, emotions and experiences. The songs seem carefully crafted to appeal to the widest possible audience. In trying to appeal to the emotions of every teenage girl, I feel like Swift expresses almost nothing of any individual girl, including herself, which is strange considering how personal and autobiographical most of her music is reported to be. These autobiographical songs feel impersonal to me, like it's Taylor Swift playing the part of what Taylor Swift, teenage romantic, should be. She feels as manicured and manipulated as any other pop star. And I can't help but wonder if this classification of art/not art is simply a matter of taste. To paraphrase the inimitable Oscar Wilde, art is what I like myself. What is not art is what entertains other people.
I guess my whole point here, if I have one, is that I find it disappointing that a significant portion of tonight's audience wouldn't have shown up if they had known they would be serenaded by real artists singing their own songs rather than the familiar, easily digested melodies of Elvis and Chris Martin. Art, on some level, should make us a little uncomfortable. Yes it can entertain us, but for it to really have an impact on the audience it ought to challenge them in some way. Perhaps my frustration is the feeling that support for art in our communities is waning. That not enough of us, including me sometimes, are willing to risk the challenge of art. Do we prefer American Idol to today's budding Bachs and Chopins and John Coltranes? And if we do, how do we continue to cultivate a sensitive appreciation of the experiences of others? At it's core, is art about empathy?
Dang. I need someone to talk to about all this. I know it's discussed in every entry level art program everywhere, but I like monumentally unanswerable questions. Shall we discuss it? Comments, please. What is the line for you between experiencing art and being entertained? And does the distinction matter?
Tonight, a new band was playing. This was their first gig outside of a house show they did recently. Originally, the young woman's other band, a wedding band that plays covers of Etta James, Elvis, Coldplay, etc., was scheduled to play. It was posted on the website, and several of the groups that came tonight were expecting to rock out to "Yellow" and "At Last." The keyboardist for the wedding band was unexpectedly out of the country, so the woman brought her other band instead. This was a trio that performed original songs, and had an indie folk/alt pop feel with an little electonica/classical thrown in to keep everyone on their toes.
Let me stop here and offer this admission--I understand that if you were expecting to come to a performance of oldies covers and you got the performance that the audience enjoyed tonight you might be disappointed. I'm not trying to pick on folks who felt betrayed by the apparent bait-and-switch. But it got me thinking about bigger issues in art--like what is the value of being entertained by art? How invested should an artist be in giving an audience what they want? If an artist is dedicated to self-expression rather than pleasing audiences, is that art valuable? And if it is valuable, how do we sustain it if people are unwilling to pay for it?
I think I likely enjoyed tonight's performance better than what was originally planned. I'm sure the wedding band is fine, but part of the purpose for this concert series is to nurture local artists, not just provide free summer entertainment. The set tonight was entirely original songs but one, a Sufjan Stevens cover. It's not everyone's cup of tea, but both singers had exceptional voices and were clearly accomplished musicians and writers, and their performance evoked that sense of self-expression that I think excludes most cover bands from a place at the "art" table.
Is that horribly elitist of me? It's not that I don't think a cover of a song be could be art. It's just that most aren't. I think it may be harder to take someone else's song and perform it in such a way that it becomes a work of art, self-expression and all, than it is just to write and perform your own songs. I guess I frequently see songwriters as true artists, and have greater respect for them in that role than I do performers who interpret other's works. Painters who copy the masters are not masters themselves.
And yet, I find that contradictory when it's extrapolated to other mediums. For example, I would consider a great actor an artist, although in most cases actors are speaking lines they did not write and following directions they did not give. I guess I see actors as collaborators in the creative process. They have the opportunity to create the physical presence of the character on stage or on film and can bring their own unique spirit to the role. Hamlet has been played thousands of times, and the best actors create a new version of him that illuminates some aspect of the themes of that play. Those actors are artists.
On the flip side of that coin, not every songwriter is an artist. Apologies to her fans, but I wouldn't classify Taylor Swift as an artist. This is where the lowest common denominator comes in. Swift's songwriting feels like a commercial venture more than an expression of her own philosophies, emotions and experiences. The songs seem carefully crafted to appeal to the widest possible audience. In trying to appeal to the emotions of every teenage girl, I feel like Swift expresses almost nothing of any individual girl, including herself, which is strange considering how personal and autobiographical most of her music is reported to be. These autobiographical songs feel impersonal to me, like it's Taylor Swift playing the part of what Taylor Swift, teenage romantic, should be. She feels as manicured and manipulated as any other pop star. And I can't help but wonder if this classification of art/not art is simply a matter of taste. To paraphrase the inimitable Oscar Wilde, art is what I like myself. What is not art is what entertains other people.
I guess my whole point here, if I have one, is that I find it disappointing that a significant portion of tonight's audience wouldn't have shown up if they had known they would be serenaded by real artists singing their own songs rather than the familiar, easily digested melodies of Elvis and Chris Martin. Art, on some level, should make us a little uncomfortable. Yes it can entertain us, but for it to really have an impact on the audience it ought to challenge them in some way. Perhaps my frustration is the feeling that support for art in our communities is waning. That not enough of us, including me sometimes, are willing to risk the challenge of art. Do we prefer American Idol to today's budding Bachs and Chopins and John Coltranes? And if we do, how do we continue to cultivate a sensitive appreciation of the experiences of others? At it's core, is art about empathy?
Dang. I need someone to talk to about all this. I know it's discussed in every entry level art program everywhere, but I like monumentally unanswerable questions. Shall we discuss it? Comments, please. What is the line for you between experiencing art and being entertained? And does the distinction matter?
Thursday, July 5, 2012
My sibs are pretty dang amazing
My parents had 4 kids between November 1973 and October 1979. Four kids in just under six years. I have no idea how they managed to stay sane and kind, but they did. I'm the second. I have an older sister, Gina, and two brothers, Jon and Joel. Statistically, at least one of us should have turned out to be a huge, mean, jerk. My brothers and my sister, though, are three of the kindest, most supportive, loving people I can imagine existing in the world. In addition to being smart, interesting people, they always have my back.
Gina has been my closest girlfriend for a long, long time now. I've always idolized my big sister, like many a little sis. We shared a room until I was about 14. I could have shared until she left home, but Gina was DYING by then to have her own space. It wasn't a big deal to me then, and I totally understand her motivations now that I'm an empathetic adult. See, I was a mess and Gina was our very own Commie Neatnik. (She was also known as "Captain Fun", but we won't get into that now).
She had this ability to arrange things perfectly, then keep them lovingly arranged. We had mirror twin closets with built-in shelving. I remember sitting in her closet, studying the way she had laid out her things in a pleasing pattern on her shelves. Then I would try to recreate it on my side. Never looked quite the same. Probably had something to do with the fact that she hung up her clothes on a regular basis. Our differences in standards of neatness couldn't have made it easy for her. But she was never mean.
I realize now what a pain in the hindquarters I must have been. I was bratty sometimes, but I also just wanted to be like her. I remember when she first started wearing nylons. I sulked and cried until Mom got me some, too. I think it was the same thing with the milestone of the first bra. I never let her be unique. I remember being in the fabric store one day and following Mom and Gina around saying something along the lines of "But I want that one!" every time she picked a bolt off the racks. I didn't really want any of them, but I hated that if I wanted it, she wouldn't want it anymore. She wanted to be different when I always wanted to be like her. I was being deliberately awful, but they were both far kinder than I would have been had the roles been reversed.
Being the little sister, you feel picked on because the big sis gets to do everything first, and it always seemed to me that she got the best stuff while I got the hand-me-downs. But the truth is, my entrance in the world blew her cozy little threesome out of the water. And yet she always let me tag along; she always let me be the best friend, know the deepest secrets, share the best jokes.
When we were at BYU together, she would meet me for lunch under the trees over by the Brimhall building. BYU wasn't the best experience of my life. I never felt like I belonged there, and it was always a lonely place for me. Those hours with my sister, they were my life line, my solace. On Fridays we would go to Hogi Yogi for lunch to celebrate the end of the week. She would eat a veggie sandwich and a vanilla yogurt with fruit in it (always so virtuous!) While I ate turkey and chocolate with more chocolate. My big sister shaped me both in the ways I wanted to be like her and the ways I wanted to be different. I love her for both.
Now, she's a mom to six of the most delightful human beings to exist, and she allows me to be part of their family. Her doors are always open to me. She lets me come over and cuddle her babies and smell their little heads when my heart has ached missing the presence of the babies I haven't had yet. She lets me tell them silly, exagerrated stories about our sisterly history, and she doesn't mind when I come over at dinner time because I can't face another weeknight dinner alone. Possibly more importantly, she believes in me, and she expresses that confidence to me, which bolsters my own faith in my ability to navigate whatever comes. I admire her faith, her charity, her boundless patience, her wisdom. Some of my most important insights have come in the snatches of conversation we have shared between the dirty dishes and the dirty diapers. She is a mighty woman and I still want to be like her.
Next post--The brother who has taught me more about Christ than anyone else I know.
Gina has been my closest girlfriend for a long, long time now. I've always idolized my big sister, like many a little sis. We shared a room until I was about 14. I could have shared until she left home, but Gina was DYING by then to have her own space. It wasn't a big deal to me then, and I totally understand her motivations now that I'm an empathetic adult. See, I was a mess and Gina was our very own Commie Neatnik. (She was also known as "Captain Fun", but we won't get into that now).
She had this ability to arrange things perfectly, then keep them lovingly arranged. We had mirror twin closets with built-in shelving. I remember sitting in her closet, studying the way she had laid out her things in a pleasing pattern on her shelves. Then I would try to recreate it on my side. Never looked quite the same. Probably had something to do with the fact that she hung up her clothes on a regular basis. Our differences in standards of neatness couldn't have made it easy for her. But she was never mean.
I realize now what a pain in the hindquarters I must have been. I was bratty sometimes, but I also just wanted to be like her. I remember when she first started wearing nylons. I sulked and cried until Mom got me some, too. I think it was the same thing with the milestone of the first bra. I never let her be unique. I remember being in the fabric store one day and following Mom and Gina around saying something along the lines of "But I want that one!" every time she picked a bolt off the racks. I didn't really want any of them, but I hated that if I wanted it, she wouldn't want it anymore. She wanted to be different when I always wanted to be like her. I was being deliberately awful, but they were both far kinder than I would have been had the roles been reversed.
Being the little sister, you feel picked on because the big sis gets to do everything first, and it always seemed to me that she got the best stuff while I got the hand-me-downs. But the truth is, my entrance in the world blew her cozy little threesome out of the water. And yet she always let me tag along; she always let me be the best friend, know the deepest secrets, share the best jokes.
When we were at BYU together, she would meet me for lunch under the trees over by the Brimhall building. BYU wasn't the best experience of my life. I never felt like I belonged there, and it was always a lonely place for me. Those hours with my sister, they were my life line, my solace. On Fridays we would go to Hogi Yogi for lunch to celebrate the end of the week. She would eat a veggie sandwich and a vanilla yogurt with fruit in it (always so virtuous!) While I ate turkey and chocolate with more chocolate. My big sister shaped me both in the ways I wanted to be like her and the ways I wanted to be different. I love her for both.
Now, she's a mom to six of the most delightful human beings to exist, and she allows me to be part of their family. Her doors are always open to me. She lets me come over and cuddle her babies and smell their little heads when my heart has ached missing the presence of the babies I haven't had yet. She lets me tell them silly, exagerrated stories about our sisterly history, and she doesn't mind when I come over at dinner time because I can't face another weeknight dinner alone. Possibly more importantly, she believes in me, and she expresses that confidence to me, which bolsters my own faith in my ability to navigate whatever comes. I admire her faith, her charity, her boundless patience, her wisdom. Some of my most important insights have come in the snatches of conversation we have shared between the dirty dishes and the dirty diapers. She is a mighty woman and I still want to be like her.
Next post--The brother who has taught me more about Christ than anyone else I know.
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