I have been mulling over the advice you often see to “treat your life as a work of art.” What does that mean even? There is certainly art in a life; a life can be lived artfully. But even artists, writers, other creatives, struggle to find the art in their lives, so why should those who aren’t artists per se, be exhorted to see their life as a work of art? And why do I sort of believe both that your life is not art and that yes your life is (or can be) art? Living with and through and inspired by art, though, aren’t all these things worthwhile? Let’s delve.

I often return to the photographer Robert Adams’s words where he quotes William Carlos Williams, who said that “poets write for a single reason — to give witness to splendour…” Adams goes on to say that it is a “useful word for a photographer, because it implies light — light of overwhelming intensity.” And I think that’s wonderful. The thing about making art is that you’re always looking outwardly, even though you’re also acutely aware of processing inwardly. But isn’t that a good way to live, for anyone, not just the poets? Keeping a sharp eye out for splendour, for light…

I’ve long been influenced by the thinking of Li-Young Lee on this subject, as he speaks about it in conversation with Reamy Jansen (you can find the convo in Breaking the Alabaster Jar). We humans, we are all looking for meaning, and Lee asks, “Is there anything that is not saturated in meaning?” He says:

“If I look around, everything that goes on is saturated with meaning and mystery that I can’t quite get my mind around. I see it and sometimes I can verbalize or find the verbal equivalent or correspondence in the world. Doing laundry is an instance.”

“We’re always doing laundry, and I come into the presence of an eternal mystery while folding clothes! I don’t know why, but it feels that the world around me is saturated with another presence, mystery, and splendour, all the time. It’s a matter of cocking our heads the right way and seeing it. Poetic presence is there all the time, even while doing the laundry.”

And so there’s that word splendour, again.

Lee also says this in another conversation, this time with Alan Fox:

“…I don’t think the poem or the poetry is the final opus. I don’t think the work is the poem or the poetry is the final opus. I don’t think the work is the poem or book of poems or the novel or the painting. It’s the self and that the making of the art is a way toward that total presence that one is trying to achieve. You can’t just go through the world and try to be. I think art is a viable path toward total presence.”

“I look at the poem as looking into the mirror. How do I look today? How does my soul look today?”

How do you want to live, now? That has been the question asked by countless writers and I ask it of myself all the time. The Canadian writer Elizabeth Smart once asked:

“Isn’t there some statement you’d like to make? Anything noted while alive? Anything felt, seen, heard, done? You are here. You’re having your turn. Isn't there something you know and nobody else does? What if nobody listens? Is it all to be wasted? All blasted? What about that pricey pain? What about those people. They sit outside this story, but give it its shape. If it has a shape. What about all the words that were said and all the words that were never said?”

As for me, I do want to make of my life art. I want to be a witness to splendour. I want to get as much down as possible, whether by the light of photography or by the light of my weird noticing. I want my presence to be art. I don't want to waste anything, not a moment. I want this blog to be art and I want to inspire you to make art of your life. I want my peanut butter sandwiches to be art, and I want the flowers I arrange in a vase to be art. You’ll remember this quotation by Anne Morrow Lindbergh from her lovely small book, Gift from the Sea:

“Arranging a bowl of flowers in the morning can give a sense of quiet in a crowded day — like writing a poem or saying a prayer.”

I look around at all the people I know navigating this pandemic life with grace and fortitude and the way they parent and work from home and do all these things that we would have thought to be weird in the beforetimes. So weird and so impossibly difficult! And yet though so many are stretched so thin, processing a ton of unevenly disseminated information on how to stay safe, keeping their loved ones safe, working in non-ideal situations, and etc, they are often doing it with a sense of humour, with elegance, with an amazing make the best of it attitude. Sure, we’re all crumbling from time to time; we’re struggling. In the last two years most of us have felt pretty much every emotion under the sun. But if this isn’t art, the lives we are leading right now, then I don’t know what is. If, as Li-Young Lee says, the self is the final opus, then how do you want your soul to look when all this is said and done?

Thanks for reading, and a heartfelt thanks for your wonderful support of my last post! As I said, I had really mulled over switching over to a subscriber based newsletter like Substack or Patreon, but in the end, for me, I like that people get to see what they’re supporting before they “tip.” So instead of that I’m just going to remind more often that the tip jar is there at the bottom of each post. A million thank yous to all of you who read and support this space.

BTW, this post might pair well with one titled “The Imprinting of the Work on Your Soul.”

January 6, 2022