My Word's Worth: a weekly column by Marylaine Block

vol. 5, #6, August 16, 1999

MAKING TIME STAND STILL

It's not art, it's self-defense
if it captures him, he has to capture it back

Jane Siberry

Like any writer or artist, I sometimes wonder why we need so badly to write it down, capture a thought or a scene or an emotion or a moment in time. It's not, after all, just me -- you can see it in the obsessiveness with which Turner painted the clouds and sea, and Monet painted Rouen Cathedral over and over, at different times of day. It's an impulse that's in all of us, as we snap photos and make videos of the people and moments and places that have moved us.

The impulse is there from earliest childhood. You can see it in the beaming toddler showing you his scribbles on a page. His glee surely has something to do with the growing ability to control his body, make his fingers do what he wants them to. And in the ability to control his environment too, in some small way, for when he's finished, something exists that wasn't there before, and he did it, all by himself.

At that age, mastery is enough. We have the pleasing confidence that as we grow we will master more things, gain more independence, control our world. But as we get older, we begin to understand the double-edgedness of time. We gain freedom of movement, but move farther from the cozy intimacy of home, learning that "big" boys and girls aren't supposed to suck their thumbs or cuddle a velveteen rabbit. We learn to read and write, but the words distance us from what we see and hear and smell and taste. We move into a world of accomplishment by bells and schedules, and lose that childhood sense of lazy timeless summer when the yard went on forever.

At that point, I think, we become wary of time, worried that our memories are too feeble a scrapbook to hold the thoughts and beliefs and moments that matter to us. Words and art, photographs and objects filled with meaning, become our way of keeping them, not just for ourselves, but for our descendants. Our world need not have had the glories and tragedies of Camelot for us to say "Don't let it be forgot that once there was a spot for one brief shining moment..." We are here for only a brief while, but still we mattered.

When our oldest ancestors ventured out of the caves, surely one of the pleasures of the hunt was coming back to say "I have stared danger in the face," and "I have seen wonders." They drew pictures on the walls of caves, and told stories to their children of heroic men and fierce beasts, the changes of seasons and the mysterious wishes of the gods, fixing the stories in permanent form with rhyme and rhythm and music. With the coming of alphabets, they began to write it all down, their names and begats, their adventures and discoveries, their thoughts and passions.

That's what we all try to do -- make time stand still while we capture one brief moment or idea, fix it in place so we can remember it, show what it was like to be there to those who stayed behind, or who look at the world through different eyes. You can almost see poor Turner, desperately painting racing storm-filled clouds, knowing that even as he paints they are changing into other forms, other colors.

Some artists have made their peace with temporariness by making transience itself the art. They build a one-time only art experience, like a fence of fabric across valleys and hills, or turn the noises made by a disconcerted audience into the musical performance itself, so that no two performances will be the same. At the annual Burning Man festival in the desert of Nevada, every year a small camp city arises from nothing, and is restored to nothing, after a week of art and music and performances.

But even for them the impulse to make the moment permanent remains. Christo does, after all, make photographs of his work, and John Cage's work has been recorded; the people at Burning Man preserve photos and films of their work and post them on their web sites. The people who were there tell the story of the event, in diaries, poetry, and song. The event is not enough -- it has to be recreated. The Burning Man is less a man than a phoenix, that each year is reborn from his own ashes. The festival may be about transience, but its visitors are still saying "Pay attention. I was here."

For some of us, art and words and music are not just about capturing a moment in time, but forcing it to stand still long enough for us to make sense of it, figure out why it speaks to us so profoundly. A wedding picture, a few bars of music, the voice of the little boy speaking into the microphone, are just starting points, like Proust's madeleine, evoking memories, dreams, and thoughts that will tell us who we are if we take the time to examine them.

So maybe for me writing is not just the need to say "I have seen wonders," not just the need to say "I was here." It may also have to do with that childish pride in the ability to control. It isn't art, it's self-defense; capture me, engage my mind and heart, and I must capture it back. It's not just "Remember me," but "Remember how I understood my world; use it if you can."

NOTE: My thinking is always a work in progress. You could mentally insert all my columns in between these two sentences: "This is something I've been thinking about," and "Does this make any sense to you?" I welcome your thoughts. Please send your comments about these columns to: marylaine at netexpress.net. Since I've written a lot of these, some of them many years ago, help me out by telling me which column you're referring to.

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