Pain and Art

It's commonly accepted that art can often be the result of pain, whether it be physical or emotional. Artistic expression may come in response to pain or as a way to deal with it. Painters and photographers, musicians and writers, no matter the medium it has been used to convey pain, its effects and consequences.

My question comes from another angle. Has art and its expression ever been used to deliberately cause pain?

A few evenings ago I was at an outdoor concert of reggae and other Carribean music. To emphasize the beat, the rhythm, the promoters and/or the musicians turned up not only the volume but also the bass. I found it necessary to leave.

I used to laugh at my wife when she refused to stay at a concert with a pronounced and heavy bass because it hurt her. Not her ears so much as her bones, she said. Myself, I would joy in the vibrations of my own body to the rhythm of the pounding beat. Pain, no; discomfort, maybe but the excitement was worth it.

That night, the bass vibrated my bones: ribs, breastbone, collarbones. What's more, it hurt. After several minutes the pain throbbed as constant as a toothache and I had to leave.

It made me wonder. Has sound as art ever been used to destroy its 'consumer'? Has any other art form? I know good writing has been used as fuel for political movements, but has a combattant ever been killed by a poem? A barrage of poems?

Art is an antidote to war, anger and negative behaviors but can it ever stop it without the bodies of the artists?

Buffy Sainte-Marie's Universal Soldier is as strong as ever. Over against him is the Universal Artist. But, may sounds and looks and words never kill. It's more than enough that they hurt.

Enlightenment

Last week one day I was driving home from Burlington on Plains Road and watched a hawk land on one of the roadside light standards. It reminded me of the nearby Hendry Valley portion of the Royal Botanical Gardens, and that I hadn't been there for some time. That same afternoon I set out to the mouth of Grindstone Creek without any specific purpose.

I don't know if it was because the valley was thick with early summer growth of reeds and grasses, the combinations of heat and cool and light and shade, the sudden absence of human and mechanical interaction. I felt a growing awareness of all my surroundings and a wondrous sense of union. Let me explain.

Especially in natural settings I get a feeling of belonging, that the place and time I share with other life (and even non-life such as rock and water and air) is good, is as the Creator meant it to be. I love that feeling and take time to enjoy when it happens. But this was more. And because it was so much more, I have had to spend some time sorting this out in my head, trying to find common language to express the unusual.

Let me try to put it this way. Rather than feeling I belonged in, I felt I was.

Laugh if you must. For the merest instant I was terrified: my being didn't stop at my skin. I was the grasses and sedges around me, the water and frogs at my feet, the trees and calling birds above me. Light flowed like water, no a little more viscous like a pure light oil. The fear didn't last; it was instantly replaced by an intense joy that blocked my usual rational scrutiny.

If anyone had observed me, they might have judged me mad. I know I talked to the trees and the water. I spoke with the birds. For some time I was part of the divine that is all.

The experience is no longer fresh; I don't know if it changed me. This I do know. I have a better understanding of Francis of Assisi, the Spanish mystics, even Vincent Van Gogh. Several poets.

I felt the need to re-read poets like John Donne, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and even Allen Ginsberg's "Footnote to Howl."

It made me contemplate (again) the reason I write poetry: to instill and share the holiness of everything I see and feel, to show the miraculous in the commonplace. When I receive a comment that shows perhaps I succeeded, I feel that same joy and hope there are more who have been touched in some way by my words.

The Girl Who Would ...

I want to tell you a story, a parable of sorts. It is true in a way, the way poetry is true but not necessarily factual. The facts will have been distorted a little to emphasize clarity, so that meaning can shine through. The standard disclaimer about people living or dead may also apply. So, here we go.

Some time ago a young lady we'll call Z. was referred to me by her English teacher. He thought she had promise as a poet and needed somone outside the education system to show some interest, give her some pointers and encouragement. I was impressed by the material Z. was creating at her age, helped her identify several markets where she might find acceptance. I urged her to look closely at University creative writing programs and teachers. I was there to help her celebrate her first publication in a national literary journal. Then she disappeared.

I learned from my teacher friend that Z. had rebelled against her parents' wishes for a post-secondary education and taken off for New York to become an actress. That wasn't hard to understand. Still something about her tugged at my memory of her, something about her commitment and emotional connection to her writing, her poetry. Had she made a shift to drama, maybe?

Several weeks ago at a local cafe, I saw her come in with several friends. I caught her eye and waved to her. After making her excuses to her companions, she came over and sat with me. I asked her about her New York experience.

She told me about acting classes, casting calls; she'd had two amateur parts and an understudy for an Off-Broadway drama. Then I asked her, "What about your poetry? Do you still write?"

Her eyes lit up. She told me how she had become involved in some of the New York poetry activities, that perhaps her acting career had suffered because of it. "I didn't spend enough time sucking up and kissing the right assholes" was the way she put it. She'd come home and was working at Wal-Mart while she figured out what to do next.

I again mentioned creative writing programs. Her eyes darkened. "Sure, I want to continue writing, but I have this chance to go on tour singing with a country band." She looked at me as if she needed my approval. I smiled and shook my head.

"Z., do what you have to. Poetry already wrecked your acting career so don't be surprised if it ruins your music career. I think you were meant to be a poet and nothing can change that. If you became an astronaut, you would still be a poet. A banker and poet if that was your choice. A nun and a poet, a mother/poet."

There was a far-away look in her eyes. Then she took my hand. "Thanks, Mr. A." she said and rejoined her friends across the way.

I know she'll do more than write country songs. It's her spirit.