How often do artists find that their art fails them? Setting aside the raw emotionality of music, where does it leave painters and writers when no arrangement of pigment on paper can condense and convey their thoughts and feelings?
I do not mean that musicians are exempt from creative trouble. It takes a talented artist of any medium to recount an inner narrative effectively. But it seems to me, no music lover myself, that music can channel things in a way that other media cannot. Music can be cerebral, but aren’t writing and painting necessarily so to some degree? Sounds reverberate and envelope; paper always lies inert.
Thank goodness there’s no origami enthusiasts with sharp paper cranes around to contradict my statement!
The digital analog to paper is the screen. And the modern analog to the amateur writer is the ubiquitous blogger. But I have trouble with even this meager task - to set forth a trivial amount of writing at regular intervals. It’s been a month since my last post and there are loads to write about, if only words didn’t fail me.
When do words fail? Why do they fail? Words do not fail a lusty teenager; I had no trouble dashing off posts in high school, angst-ridden though they were. Since then, the pesky concepts of privacy and dignity have gotten to me. The internet is safe for funny anecdotes…not so much for thoughts that erupt in conversations at 3AM.
I returned a few days ago from a week-long trip to Morocco. My head is still swimming. I want to say that it’s been one of the most important weeks of my life, but to justify that in words would require more time and talent than I have. We saw places, we met people, we did things.
There is one way that I have been channeling this. I bought a small, silver, hamsa hand charm at la Maison d’Argent in Rabat. I am wearing it around a chain on my neck. Forgoing speech, a symbol. It is a reminder to me of the person I want to be, the person I’m not within university walls.
To live instead of document, sing instead of stutter.