Thoughts in town
How do you not write what you
know?
How do you separate fiction,
imagined plot lines or characters, from the realm of your existence, and yet
still imbue your characters with
life?
How is it that writing is so
different from art? Is it true? I don’t necessarily paint what I know; but
yet, I love the nuance of language, of precise description, and with paint, I
neither can nor want to intimate that kind of precision in my
work.
Is it a question of maturity? Do
you have to get over yourself in order to truly create, on a genius level? Or
does genius simply reflect a highly nuanced intellect and world view, or
selflessness?
Is that what I hope to do
– blend the mood of my writing, my thought and experience with the formal
qualities of paint?
This has been my
existential dilemna this summer. And, alas, I believe it shall continue through
the coming seasons.
But, my attempt at
poignancy today: comes from sitting in front of the New York Public Library
gardens, being surrounded by the hustle of the street, and thinking of how
profound, almost much more so than the silence and the rage of the ocean
I’ve experienced this summer, it is to find a moment of quiet in the
middle of the city. Benches and tables on the street facilitate this. They
enable reflection, publicly. Does that happen elsewhere, besides on a city
bench? Also, buses. For some inexplicable reason.
Post script: gorgeous phrase of the day:
“Beauty –
Old yet ever new –
Eternal
Voice
and
Inward
word.”
Hm. To ponder in a
garden.
Curious, indeed. I enjoy Bryant Park tremendously.
Started reading two Benjamin Franklin
biographies. Fascinating.
Posted: Tuesday - August 02, 2005 at 12:54 AM
|
