Me and My Muse
Me and My Muse
We try to get along. I believe, however, that the tension of a push-pull chemistry is necessary for maximum quality output! There are times when I welcome My Muse into my life, and then there are times when I wish to escape her. (Yes, I believe My Muse is a “she.”)
My gift - of writing - emerged after an hour of sleep one night. Here is how it usually goes between Me and My Muse:
Me: "It can wait till morning. There are only 3 lines."
My Muse: "You have to write it now."
Me: "But I am tired. I want to sleep."
My Muse: "You won't sleep, not until you get these words safely down on paper."
By then, at least 10 minutes have gone by and I am fully awake. So I explain to Dear Husband that I must write. I get up out of bed and write while seated on the leather sofa in the family room. One bright light illuminates my keyboard.
On that night, I wrote a poem from 12:30-1:30 a.m. I then returned to the vacated lumpy spot in the bed and immediately fell asleep until 10:30 the next morning.
Life then resumed its normalcy, although I am beginning to think that the interruption of my routine by My Muse has become the norm. There is no predicting these things. The only sure prediction is that I will once again have to interrupt whatever it is I am doing to sit down and write. If I just sit down and plan to write, chances are My Muse will find something else to do!
This tribute is dedicated to the Russian Artist, an inspirational figure who has been the muse of many a writer.
I was blessed during the past few years through my friendship with a Russian artist. She served as my muse, and I as hers, in ways that were simultaneously material and extra-sensory, physical and symbolic, mundane and mysterious. We met because of chance; because of the lines of our classical training that drew us at times literally together; and — by design — artistic and otherwise, through the hand of God.
Doctor Zhivago, the one and only version, the Original, happens to be my favorite film in the Modern Epic category.
This film depicts the Russian as real. The Urals represent the governmental regime
that threatens to smother the Individual. It’s the Urals vs. the
Individual: the Urals win. In the United
States, the Individual wins. There are
indeed “men to match their mountains” (a paraphrase of the un-erasable words by
Sam Walter Foss, the writer/librarian from New Hampshire).
In America, the rational and real among us have been striving to prevent the corruption and Stalin-ization of art, culture, life. Because of my Russian artist-friend, I now understand this film, and the book by Boris Pasternak, on a profound level that I’d not heretofore known.
True art never dies. In a sense neither does the artist who poured her immortal soul into that piece of work to express everything that the Overlord tried to stamp out. Therein lies the “secret of durable pigments” of which Nabokov so achingly wrote. The Russian ballerina, the Russian ice skater, the Russian composer, the Russian writer, the Russian painter, the Russian poet — during previous eras, they all exuded an unparalleled artistic sensibility, a love of freedom, that can never die. Nabokov wrote Speak Memory because he knew all too well that the memory was the only gift that truly speaks.
And when the Citizen permits any pompous, pen-wielding bureaucrat to silence him or her, the essence of life, and of art, begins to die. Memory is the only intimate treasure that an individual, and a culture, can possess that endures the test of time, and the trials of that time. Perhaps the people who have lost their memory have lost their minds as well, and we in America now watch the liberals, in their catatonic states, lashing out at the people who threaten them — the individuals who cherish freedom, and memory.
Henrik Ibsen asks in “Peer Gynt”: “If you lie, are you real?”
The fomenters of the Left are, in a very real sense, not real.
Americans do not know the fear of living under the thumb of the corrupt criminals who are the Government — for 70 years, and then under the gun of the KGB thug who enshrines himself as the New Dictator: killing rivals; killing freedom from within; killing art — past, present and future.
No museums or art curators will deal with Putin. When Putin dies, then perhaps life and language and art will again thrive in Mother Russia. And Americans will come to know the pre-Soviet portrait artists and the art forms that have languished since the Wall fell. One wall came down; a different wall of tyranny was erected. And freedom, along with creative thought and true art, will be permitted once again in a land that has begun to savage the next generations.
Russia was always an empire, never a nation. That tragedy cannot be changed. But the Russian people cannot be blamed for the sins of their government. Hopefully, that statement will not often be said about Americans.
Parting is Not Sweet Sorrow
There are times when I must break free from the past into order to create. The impulse, or desire, has, at times, caused more than a few people to speak of me as restless, even impulsive. And yet I must confess that my need to take decisive action, to make a command decision, has always been the result of lengthy contemplation and methodical caution.
The élan with which I then make my move seems quite spontaneous and capricious, but the change in direction has been plotted and planned well before it is carefully executed. In fact, to me, it feels a bit boring and anti-climactic, so meticulously have I arranged the steps of the pathway from here to . . . there.
My mode and method of living have, of necessity, been in accordance with my need to create. My Muse understands these facets of my being better than I do. My loved ones understand it even more. It is not easy for me to think of myself while at the same time living within my self. I am often too much without an awareness of my gifts, and that deficiency, if you will, has caused me untold vexation and displeasure, even the quiet sadness of knowing I’ve been used by other people. The sadder knowledge is that those individuals used up whatever virtue remained in them.
In those instances, parting from the past has not been sweet sorrow, particularly when I come to realize that I must take leave, not of my senses, but of my present station, to execute the duty of fulfilling my art.
My truest self is that of an artist. At times, I must remind myself of that truth because for so many years I went purely on faith that I was gifted with talents to be developed and trained and taught; but I did not dare to think of myself as an artist. So many pretentious people had showered themselves with that appellation that I all but ran from it!
While I was fleeing the poseurs, I was blessed by teachers and professors who gave to me lessons of a lifetime. They knew what I did not know: that I was a budding artist. They thought it best not to inform me of their sense of my artistry. Many years later, I realized the totality of their gifts to me, some of which was doing what they had to do for me — without my knowing it.
My discernment of their magnanimity has struck me profoundly; to this day I feel a bond with each of those rare individuals who saw in me what I could not see in myself. They virtuously acted with benevolence, in quiet moments and with silent love. With utter unselfishness, they instinctively and consciously understood my needs as an artist in myriad ways that permitted me to grow. And growth is crucial to any human being, but especially to an artistic soul.
My Muse perceived their brilliance. My Muse now directs me in the best paths to take to honor their genius as well as mine. It is with some difficulty that I speak, or write, of my “genius” but I grant myself that liberty because that word, genius, applied to me, is a reflection and an extension of their genius.
I parted from them, one by one, in silence, because I truly could not say good-bye to any of them. Perhaps my refusal to say “farewell” was my gift to them, my way of saying: We shall meet again, in another place and time, through a vastly superior dimension.
Parting from those special individuals was not sweet sorrow because a measure within me, My Muse, to be exact, knew that there would be only the joy of creation, the bliss of actualization, the feat of fulfillment known as art.
It is therefore in exultant honor of my mentors that I offer these bits and pieces of advice and opinion from two other teachers who continue to deeply influence me and my Muse. Both men were Russian; both were writers of limitless talent, and of great soul.
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov:
It's not a matter of old or new forms; a person writes without thinking about any forms; he writes because it flows freely from his soul.
One had better not rush, otherwise dung comes out rather than creative work.
Write only of what is important and eternal.
If you want to work on your art, work on your life.
It is a bad thing if a writer tackles a subject he does not understand.
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov
A novelist is, like all mortals, more fully at home on the surface of the present than in the ooze of the past.
To a greater or lesser extent there goes on in every person a struggle between two forces: the longing for privacy and the urge to go places; the introversion, interest directed within oneself toward one's own inner life of vigorous thought and fancy; and extroversion, interest directed outward, toward the external world of people and tangible values.
The good, the admirable reader identifies himself not with the boy or the girl in the book, but with the mind that conceived and composed that book.
The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.