Holding on / Letting go

I just finished two great books, and after digesting them a bit, realized that they were connected in interesting ways.

Yield, The Journal of an Artist by Anne Truitt, is a posthumous work about holding on. Written while in her 80’s, at the end of a successful art career, Yield is a window into the soul of an artist that left me with feelings of sadness and fear. Sadness because for much of the book she seems alone, with a deep understanding of life, but largely unable to do the things she used to do. Fear, because I know that someday I will probably be alone, with a deep(er) understanding of life, and largely unable to do the things I used to do. 

The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin, is a book about letting go. RR distills the act of making art into one of the clearest, most powerful descriptions I have ever seen or heard. The artist’s primary job is to make the art that is important to them. Everything else is secondary. Everything else can be let go in service of answering the call of inspiration. I can appreciate the purity as well as the difficulty inherent in living this way. Achieving a life where one is solely responsible for making art, and nothing else, is where I want to be. Someday. 

In the spirit of Rubin’s aptitude for taking two things from opposite ends of a spectrum and putting them together in an unexpected way, here is mash-up with some thoughts from both artists:

AT: “My life is so distilled in every work I make that when it is bought that part of my life goes with it. This used to make me suffer. I still feel a pang, but I can afford to let it go ever more easily.”

RR: “Awareness is not a state you force. There is little effort involved, though persistence is key. It’s something you actively allow to happen. It is a presence with, and acceptance of, what is happening in the eternal now.”

AT: “The cant is that older people get less and less interested in a world they will soon leave. Not so for me. “Me” is becoming less and less me, more and more generic. My remaining time here is running out like a string in my hand.”

RR:  “Living life as an artist is a practice. You are either engaging in the practice or you’re not. It makes no sense to say you’re not good at it. It’s like saying, “I’m not good at being a monk.”You are either living as a monk or you’re not.

AT:  “Eight decades under my feet lifting me up so I see farther backwards and farther forwards.”

RR: “We tend to think of the artist’s work as the output. The real work of the artist is a way of being in the world.”

AT: “Two Washington acquaintances died this week. Both were “known.” But once dead, they could have been bubbles: quite literally air departed from them — their breath became air and both left behind them their effort. Their effort counted. While they owned their breath, they counted. Now their breath is air — unowned, uncounted.”

RR: “In terms of priority, inspiration comes first. You come next. The audience comes last.”

AT: “An active life in art can preclude profundity. But these words embarass me. As if I were myself smugly apart from such dangers — which I am not. 

RR: “Part of the process of letting go is releasing any thoughts of how you or your piece will be received. When making art, the audience comes last. Let's not consider how a piece will be received or a release strategy until the work is finished and we love it.”

AT: “At some point in this daily life of mine I will be forced to stop, to lie down, and to die. I learned at my mother’s knee that a life is bestowed so that it may be lived as much as possible in goodness, may grow in wisdom, and when the time comes may be given back in honesty.”

RR: “When it comes to the creative process, patience is accepting that the majority of the work we do is out of our control.”