Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man
Met with C. and H. today.
We finished A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man. I had a tough time getting into the book. Work concerns, general exhaustion, a low grade despair -- who knows! -- something was keeping me from submerging into the text. I skittered across the surface -- each time one of the many esoteric references came up I skipped out of the narrative like a stone on glassy water.
C. seemed to enjoy the book. She said she loved how its a description, or expression of an artist's sensibilities evolving and changing and developing. And this is done in the beauty of the language, instead of in a didactic way. The idea I think is that we read of the artist's evolving sensibility, and can relate identify with it in some way.
For my own part the book left me cold. Stephen Daedelus's poor physical vision seems to be a reason for over developed sense for language. Words have color, taste. He fuses them, works them in the "smithy of his soul". His relationships with women are cold as well as his friends. The catholic church looms large also in his mind, with its poetic landscape of fire and eternity, and becomes a seducer for a while. In the end he is walking and talking with a friend, and ends this friendship cold.
I was grinding through the book in an irritated mood up until this point in fact. Here I woke up. This ending episode rang similar to an experience of mine: I had a poet friend, who called himself at one point a "poet of disaster." He claimed to be inspired by Stephen Mallarme, and even translated a collection of Mallarme's poems. We used to walk weekly, for years. We talked about art, books, topics in our lives. One day I got the sense that he wanted it to be over. He tried saying something on one of our walks but I think I interrupted him and said something stupid and light. The moment passed.
One evening after the pandemic, we had a smoky fire in the backyard. His wife was there, it was cold. We talked, we tried to talk. Post pandemic was a challenging time. We talked about morality, life, art. We talked about "having a new sense." Which was to say, instead of thinking of things morally, we should be informed within, by a "sense" of life. Anyway, it was all over. They left politely. We never spoke again. No explanation. Just a quick and complete amputation. Nothing left but the lingering smoke of a dying fire.
In my memory, he valued words and his pure art and the possibility that these words may have in the world. He worked in his basement like a modern alchemist, or meth chemist, tirelessly, by himself, with no audience, for years. I think he held out hopes that at some point deep into the future, some spark would light and his whole mallarme-word-and-painting project would explode into the universe like a trailerpark meth lab and the still burning bits would find their kindling and set the world aflame.
But the whole thing leaves me cold. I would love to be on the side of Art above All, but really I think differently these days. I think we need people, people to walk and talk with and hold. Eros is real and a lifegiving force. We need the back and forth with others. A dialogue and some forgiveness. Time to learn from each other. Perhaps this is how our sensibilities actually evolve -- in communion with others. Maybe art can help us realize this, point us in a new direction. Perhaps if we are lonely or in despair art can be that survival fire we need in the dark night of our soul. But still, in the end we survive with others. We need them to help us build a deeper, quieter, sustaining fire.