The Face of Chaos
Well, I've talked about it figuratively, saying that it's nice to create order, meaning, in the face of chaos. And now the face of Chaos is here, and her name, for now, is Katrina. And this is, as Sept. 11th was, a great test of my belief in the saving power of art. Because of course you can say it's nice to create order out of chaos when the chaos is small, when it's a lost passport, or a fender bender during rush hour, or even the death of a grandparent. But when it's large and awesome, when it reminds us of the delicate, precarious balance our lives rely on, it's much harder to find the purely creative act as an acceptable course of action.
Even though I live in Texas, my best friend in the whole wide world--my soul sister if ever I had one--is one of the hurricane's refugees, taking shelter up in her family's home in North Carolina. Her home is in downtown New Orleans, in the basin of that city's bowl. And now neither she nor I know what has happened to it--whether her belongings--the outward implements of her life--have survived or been cast asunder by wind or rising waters. She is distressed, resigned, frustrated, as am I, as I want to help her and others in N.O. but of course can't. The state of helplessness is not a good place to visit. I've donated money to the Red Cross, and I'm glad I can help financially, but what I really would like to do is help materially--with my time, my talents. I've offered my home to anyone who needs it, and that is something, I suppose, except that no one can take me up on it, and so, again, I feel sort of useless.
And where does the making up of stories fit into the world, currently of Katrina's unmaking? It always feels to me like a dangerous justification when I say that art is essential, even in moments where it is dwarfed by destruction, loss of life, evil or an Act of God. It feels like I am inflating the worth of something that only those in the most privileged moments and circumstances can take advantage of. When you have a comfortable home. A satisfying meal. The time to go beyond survival.
The only real justification that works, I think, is that human emotions are real things, as real as a clapboard home or a light bulb. And those need repair and healing as much as broken windows or broken skin. And when the dust settles, when basic survival is no longer a struggle but once again a given, those emotions are going to need attention, are going to need work. And I still believe that art is one of the few things that can shine a light on the dark inner place where emotions reside, the hot core in a cave that gives us our heat and our power. Art allows us to go inside and check on how everything's working, on whether or not we need a little tune up or a major undertaking. Pass the screwdriver, or, Set up the dynamite.
This reminds me of how important it is, then, at least for me, to ensure that my stories are always working on the level of feeling--for how can you access the emotions of a human being if there is nothing to be felt in your art?--and not just the intellect. I continue to become more and more convinced that a purely intellectual story is an example of beautiful machinery, but that it has ultimately nothing of the human to elevate it beyond a marvel of engineering.
And so, thinking of the importance of emotion and real feeling, and thinking of the people who rely on the artist to help them repair their damaged cores, I will write, and I will write as hard as I can, giving Chaos and Katrina a big fuck you, a resolutely raised middle finger.
Even though I live in Texas, my best friend in the whole wide world--my soul sister if ever I had one--is one of the hurricane's refugees, taking shelter up in her family's home in North Carolina. Her home is in downtown New Orleans, in the basin of that city's bowl. And now neither she nor I know what has happened to it--whether her belongings--the outward implements of her life--have survived or been cast asunder by wind or rising waters. She is distressed, resigned, frustrated, as am I, as I want to help her and others in N.O. but of course can't. The state of helplessness is not a good place to visit. I've donated money to the Red Cross, and I'm glad I can help financially, but what I really would like to do is help materially--with my time, my talents. I've offered my home to anyone who needs it, and that is something, I suppose, except that no one can take me up on it, and so, again, I feel sort of useless.
And where does the making up of stories fit into the world, currently of Katrina's unmaking? It always feels to me like a dangerous justification when I say that art is essential, even in moments where it is dwarfed by destruction, loss of life, evil or an Act of God. It feels like I am inflating the worth of something that only those in the most privileged moments and circumstances can take advantage of. When you have a comfortable home. A satisfying meal. The time to go beyond survival.
The only real justification that works, I think, is that human emotions are real things, as real as a clapboard home or a light bulb. And those need repair and healing as much as broken windows or broken skin. And when the dust settles, when basic survival is no longer a struggle but once again a given, those emotions are going to need attention, are going to need work. And I still believe that art is one of the few things that can shine a light on the dark inner place where emotions reside, the hot core in a cave that gives us our heat and our power. Art allows us to go inside and check on how everything's working, on whether or not we need a little tune up or a major undertaking. Pass the screwdriver, or, Set up the dynamite.
This reminds me of how important it is, then, at least for me, to ensure that my stories are always working on the level of feeling--for how can you access the emotions of a human being if there is nothing to be felt in your art?--and not just the intellect. I continue to become more and more convinced that a purely intellectual story is an example of beautiful machinery, but that it has ultimately nothing of the human to elevate it beyond a marvel of engineering.
And so, thinking of the importance of emotion and real feeling, and thinking of the people who rely on the artist to help them repair their damaged cores, I will write, and I will write as hard as I can, giving Chaos and Katrina a big fuck you, a resolutely raised middle finger.
posted by Tiffany Hamburger at
1:35 PM
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