When I went back to college at the ripe old age of 53 I was terrified. Could I still learn? Could I keep up with 18 year olds? Would anyone talk to me, accept me??
I started in the summer so as to slip in before the fall rush. I decided to take Yoga and Music Appreciation. If I couldn’t keep up in a yoga class, I had no chance of surviving the 20 hours of dance that was ahead of me. And if I couldn’t pass a test about listening to music, then I was doomed when it came to music theory, chemistry and history.
Although school was an hour away from home and yoga was at 8am (and you know I am not a morning person!) it was kind of relaxing and wonderful to start your day off with a great yoga class alongside 18-20 year old guys who were purposely hilarious.
I then had an hour break to sit on the beautiful campus, eat a snack and people watch until my music class. Again, I thoroughly enjoyed listening to the classical music and jazz for an hour as some of the same guys made the class funny and relaxed.
After many of the classes, I had a lively debate with my professor, a very kind, smart, and elderly gentleman who made me feel like one of the “youngsters” and really made me think. He got me excited to be back at school. Our discussions centered around the question of whether art that is never seen or heard by anyone other than the artist himself is still art. My professor was adamant that if no one saw it, it wasn’t art. Art has to have an audience. But just because there is an audience doesn’t automatically make it art. It doesn’t work both ways, according to my teacher.
I, on the other hand, felt that if an artist put their heart and soul into a piece, whether it be music or a painting or the written word, then it was still art. It was not solely dependent on someone else’s eyes, ears or opinion. (That coming from someone who is now a theatre critic!)
We went back and forth for most of the summer and never agreed, but had some great times talking after the rest of the “kids” had gone home.
The other day I realized I now agree with him. He passed away several years ago and I have slowly changed my opinion without even realizing it or getting to tell him he was right.
I constantly tell the kids I coach that when you are singing or acting, you are telling a story. “Storytelling is the basis of all art” I have said. “If you don’t communicate anything, you might as well have stayed home!” So what good is it to tell a story if no one sees it or hears it, if no one feels it or thinks about it?
I have kept all of the journals I have written since I was 8 years old. They are my personal property. Occasionally I take one out to see what I was thinking in 1967 or 1982 and I am now the audience because I am a different person, reading the stories of someone who seems removed from me somehow. They are not art in any sense, but they do tell my story.
I guess that is why I blog. To tell my story. To share it, not just write it down. It hardly makes it art, but in my mind at least it gives it some validity if someone can say to me, “I get that” “I understand” or “you made me cry.” I guess that is my ego talking, but it is the truth.
I made the mistake this morning of watching the recording from my TV interview yesterday. Immediately the negative inner voice I work so hard to destroy came through loud and clear. “I hate the sound of my voice, the way I looked and how unpolished my responses were.” “I stammered and stuttered and said “Ummm” way more than I thought I did.” (Luckily, no one has said a word about my television appearance, so I am thinking that no one saw it. I hate that for the show’s sake and for the group I was there to represent, but I am happy for me!)
Those inner voices are the part of being an artist that we don’t want to share. That voice saying we aren’t good enough, cute enough, talented enough. The doubt we feel as we step on stage, pick up a paint brush, or turn on the computer. That is what made me believe that if I sang in my room, alone, it was still art. And I argued with my teacher because I didn’t want to admit that I wanted to think I was being an artist alone and that it was OK to do that. It was acceptable to be scared, to hide what you felt compelled to create.
Every time I blog I walk away thinking, “This time I’ve done it! I’ve shared too much, I’ve crossed a line.” Last night I dreamed all night long that people I know were telling me I needed to stop, to go back into the shadows. (I woke up mad at the people in my dreams even though I know it wasn’t really them, just my mind doing a number on me.) For once in my life I didn’t listen to those voices, not from last night and not from this morning. Instead I came in here to write again. For once, I am not throwing in the towel and hiding from what I enjoy. For once, I am not giving in. For once, I still see the possibilities those voices try to rob from me.
(Keep in mind that even though I wrote this and you read it, doesn’t mean it is art. Right??)
