Jar for Time
(2015, cottonwood bark, wool felt, journal pages, peony pistils, beeswax)
Dear Comrades in Making,
Do you ever wonder, as I do, how you might have made such a thing as that? As that sentence, as that drawing, as that painting or sculpture? Or a song, a bit of music? Do you see it and think, my goodness, how did I do that, I wonder?
I have often thought that I must be extremely forgetful, or not very attentive to my own process, but reading Philip Glass' memoir, Words Without Music, has me considering my addled brain differently. In this rewarding book, Mr. Glass writes about his position as composer versus his position as witness:
When you have one foot in this world and one foot in the other world, the foot in the other world is the foot that takes you into the world of clarity and power. The problem with recall is that when I return to the world of the witness, I'm not sure if I'm remembering correctly what I wrote, because I'm not using the same tools to remember as I used to write. The world of the witness is less powerful than the world of the writer, because the function of writing will eventually rob the witness of his energy so that the writer will be able to conceptualize the "art" work.
I am ensorcelled by books about peoples' adventures in creative activity- or, let me put it more poetically, I love to read tales of encounters with the muses. Why, you might ask? Because I enjoy sharing the company of like-minded folk. If you were to wander into The Brown Study today, you would find me recommending Words Without Music to anyone who came through the doorway. I would suggest that you let its pages of interesting tales, people, travels, and musings float your thoughts down the ever-widening river of time.
