Conversations in Art 2,TWO, II

[I went on a trip last week... here's part of the lowdown, from then and beyond]

Call it serendipity.

I'm driving to Washington D.C. There's popcorn on the floor of the rental van. Crumbs on my black pants. Cups with our names on them. And Chasing Vermeer playing through the back speakers; I can't hear it very well.

We pull in to a rest stop and the hum of traffic dissipates. Now I can hear Chasing Vermeer. The characters are having a philosophical discussion about Art. What makes some things worthy of being in a museum? What makes other things trash we'll throw away? I am reminded of Long Island Express Girl's challenging comments on the last post.

Anyway. One character says that art is a puzzle. It makes him think in new ways. Though I don't know it yet, I will agree with him over the next few days as I view many pieces at the National Gallery of Art, including The Way Things Go (an art-in-motion piece I'll write about in an upcoming talk) . I will also agree with the character when I get home and my eldest daughter secretly begins reading a book I used for last month's book club.

The book? Missing Mountains, about the issue of Mountain Top Removal. Eldest is moved by it. Essays, photos, poetry, short stories, songs. Art that makes her think in new ways. One thing leads to another, and I tell my girls about a beautiful woman who lives in Appalachia, who is using her musical art to try to help people think differently. Maybe even help them to have compassion. To love. To long for what they didn't know.

We sit for a long time. Littlest on my lap. Eldest leaning into my shoulder. We listen to this haunting music. I am overcome. Tears rise. I can feel my heart beating, swelling even. Littlest Child decides she loves Appalachian folk music. And the Appalachian dulcimer. She wants to find someone who can teach her to play. A twelve string one, she decides. Because she is convinced that the beauty she hears from Blue Mountain Mama is from a 12-string dulcimer.

What makes art Art? A little child shall tell me. Has told.


Water on Paper Sculpture, by Sara. Used with permission.


MORE ON ART:

Gabriel Scheller's Art and Inspiration at Christine Scheller's blog

Gabe Scheller's profound thoughts on the sacredness of art.

STONE CROSSINGS:

Ted's poetic discussion of Chapter 3: Tossed Treasure.

Body of Water

First day of the conference, I take it easy. Wake up late. This will turn out to be a good move.

On the shuttle over to the Prince Conference Center, I meet a former college president who incidentally knows my father-in-law and likes him a great deal. We hit it off and end up attending Mary Gordon's opening talk together: Is Fiction Moral? I am reminded of the post I did right before leaving, which suggested that words have the power to preserve life.

Gordon's talk is so intelligent and moving, I can hardly keep up. The long and short of it: she begins by arguing that fiction is not moral. It's not where she goes when she wants to consider how to behave... but she ends by arguing that fiction is moral, if one considers compassion to be a kind of morality.

This converges with the reading I've been doing since embarking on the trip... a book called Missing Mountains, which approaches the issue of mountaintop removal not only through essay but also through poetry and short story... perhaps as a way to develop compassion for "the children who do not have good water to drink or bathe in, the people who travel unsafe roads or live beneath sites that have already sent boulders through their homes."

After the opening session, I am accosted (in an oh-so-friendly-and-welcome-way) by Ann Kroeker, as I'm walking through the tunnel that goes over the highway. She has bought my book and the IVP people have apparently described me with great accuracy. I sign her book. We chat. It is clear we will need more time together. We agree to have lunch the next day. (More on that tomorrow.) My camera batteries are dead, so I use her camera to take a picture of her, which Mark Goodyear finds it in his heart to call artsy and wonky (or maybe those words were really to describe me).

I float through the afternoon, chatting and exploring. I attend only one more seminar, where I end up making unexpected plans with someone from Paraclete Press. (I can be this way at conferences... skipping seminars. A while back I decided that relationship is more important than information; this will reach its height the next day!). I write a poem about relationship. The image is that of rain falling on a body of water. Maybe a lake or a pond or a stream. I am feeling like the lake, the pond. Others are the rain.

"Body of Water"

Plash—
rain comes, rings
fan out collide
die and resurrect
in liquid ridges,
tensions releases
ride beyond
perception, yet...





Around 5:00 pm, my publishing company (see feet above!) takes me out to celebrate Stone Crossings. I am a slow eater and end up sitting with a group of very patient people who are quite done, while I am still working on greens with gorgonzola and cranberry walnut bread. Overall we have a great time, but I feel an odd sense of tension as I have also come to the conference having just received a contract offer from IVP for God in the Yard. This is not simply a celebration; it is potentially a next step too, and that feels strange.

After dinner, I decide to skip the plenary session. In a little while, Ted and Deb will come to meet me at my hotel and bless me deeply with their presence and prayer. An hour later, we will say our goodbyes. Then I will return to my quiet room. And put my body of water into a small body of water in the bare hotel bathroom. It will have been good to relax, as I discover the following day.

RELATED POSTS:

LL's Solo at the Red Sun

LL's Leaving