Suffer the Artists

Why are the so called artists, people whose lives are spent in the pursuit of creative endeavors, so often perceived as conflicted, unbalanced even tortured individuals? Of course this perception may well be a myth, merely part of the persona expected by every great artist. That he should suffer for his art; making us the audience less envious and thus perhaps less hesitant to praise him. We can even delight in it: ‘oh how he suffers for us’. The artist plays the part gladly, a carte blanche to break the norms and etiquette of respectable society as the public cheers him and condemns him with equal measure and fervor.

Yet if instead we accept the premise of the tormented artists as real, then it might be tempting to think that it is that task, of attempting to look at the world afresh, with eyes unclouded by the thoughts of the thoughtless and the lazy impressions of the multitudes, which comes to unhinge the artist. In that sense, the artist even as he shatters the rules comes to reinforce them. Standing as a reminder of the price for seeking to go beyond what is given. Another explanation would be that it is simply those that suffer that are driven to such lengths to create. Tortured souls turn to art, attempting to turn something painful into something beautiful. It is that discontentment that is the fuel of the creative mind. Happiness is the bane of inspiration. The suffering needs art, as every artist eventually comes to need suffering. What then of those poor souls that suffer yet lack the creative impulse?

As the Pendulum Swings.....

His tendency is on the surface simple, almost banal. He always moves towards the melancholic; always towards the emotional and intuitive, even as part of himself quietly resists with its gently yet firm rational reprimandation. Ever are his two selves fighting for supremacy. Yet he has gone so far in interpolating these, the Dionysian and Apollonian, that whatever self there is cannot consider or know itself without these oppositions. These antinomies are what he has become. As one part whispers ever so seductively: Things are what they are, and should be. Enjoy. To you are the fruits of existence. Another part always responds: This is not happiness. This is but a shadow of a shadow. There is something more. You are playing a game of slave and master; always playing the part of either. This is not freedom. By the light of day the voice of complacency is stronger. The voice of least resistance. Attuning itself to the empty rhythms of contentment. But by night his heart beats to different drum. It rails and rages against the hypocrisies and platitudes of respectable society. It promises itself revolution and rebellion. Yet every morning sees a return to a more rational state of mind. He awakes as if from a furious dream, all the while knowing that the tempest has not past, but is merely slumbering. Awaiting the setting of dusk.

Dreams of Damascus

As war has once again returned to Syria I find myself often thinking of those days past, when I called that oldest of cities, Damascus, home. In particular I think of all the times I spent in the Great Omayyad Mosque. It should be said that I am not a religious man. I have never prayed. I do not even know how to do it, although I have seen it done a thousand times. It was not spiritual solace I sought; it was something else, another kind of comfort from woes less celestial in nature. Above all I used to sit out in the courtyard and watch. Children playing. Couples resting from the hustle and bustle of the souq. Families having picnics. The playfulness of this, the fourth holiest place in all of Islam, always struck a chord with me. No somber reverence of the Churches of Europe here. Noise, laughter, stolen glances. This was a kind of religious sanctuary that to me exemplified the best of the East in general and Syria in particular. The very architecture of the building reflected this relaxed approach to the divine; a mélange of all the faiths that had once walked this land. Although its likely origin was as a temple to the Aramean god Hadad, it was the Romans that turned it into one of the largest structures of the ancient world: a great temple to Jupiter. Those powerful roman pillars still dominate the temple, together its exact sense of symmetry reflecting the Roman obsession with order and power, and the connection between them. When Rome became Christian, cosmological power grew less from an organized universe as much as from sacred symbols and icons. And so the head of John the Baptist found its final resting place here, where it still remains, blessing the city with its aura of sanctity. The blessing would prove short lived, however, and the Islamic conquest would see the city and temple returned to its Semitic ancestry. Al Walid, the sixth Caliph, set about making it the most impressive structure of his large domain, bringing craftsmen from all across the newly conquered lands, from Morocco in the West to India in the East. All left their mark. Combining Roman symmetry and austerity with Persian love of sophistication and abstraction, to whimsical results. Like Islam itself it parts took from all the territories conquered and molded them together into something new. Something in the process of defining itself. While later Islamic periods would see clearly defined architectural styles flourish, as beautiful as they are predictable, the Omayyad Mosque still stands today a tribute to the power of idiosyncrasy. Here, within its walls I would lay remembering the times when Islam was yet open and inclusive, and crisp clear air and fresh winds blew through Syria.