Bad Romance

Good evening. It's Monday, and I'm sitting here, listening to Mumford and Sons, procrastinating any semblance of finals-preparation.

Good life choices start in college. Remember that.

So, to answer your question, must an artist be tortured to produce a quality piece of work?

My answer is yes and no. We writers do love being concrete, don't we?

It's kind of dreadful to think that we are doomed to a life of misery just to be able to create. There's gotta be some peppy writers out there, right? I'm sure Shakespeare loosened up a bit and had some fun, even if it was only on Sundays. But sometimes, the most exquisite, intimate writing comes through bad experiences. Does that mean you have to have a terrible life, or be a cynic for the rest of eternity?

Absolutely not!

Anne Lamott, a fabulous memoir-writer had a terrible childhood. She dealt with death. She dealt with drugs. She dealt with so many family issues, that horribly strict parents seem like birthday cake topped with loads of icing. Yet this woman is hilarious--and she now leads a normal, peaceful life. She has allowed herself to distance herself from the pain and see her unfortunate past from a humorous perspective.

Same goes with David Sedaris. He was teased mercilessly in his youth, and had to deal with coming out back when it wasn't as widely accepted. His mode of writing, however, is both observant and will make you hem, haw, and LOL.

So it seems to be a prerequisite to have a rough patch--such as a bad romance, or a paparazzi who just won't leave you alone (thank you, Lady Gaga), but in order to create, you must detach yourself from these negative experiences and view them in a new light. Just as the Wordsworthian method of poetry is to express your emotions recollected in tranquility, the expression of prose may be to take a difficult situation that the artist is no longer in the midst of.

If you'll notice, my examples are mainly memoir writers. While memoirs are studied closely in creative writing class, they seem to be forgotten in literature classes. Is this genre hopeless when it comes to "classics"? Or is perhaps perceived more writing than reading?--meaning, do we read memoirs in order to learn how to write, rather than to be entertained/troubled/engaged?

'Cause that would be a whole lot of engagement rings. Heh...heh....

So, do memoirs have "classic" potential?

Peace and Ponies,
Kira

The Tortured Artist

Dear Kira,

First of all, kudos on the new hair style.

Second of all, I have to say that I quite agree with you. The 'tortured' artist is a stereotype for a reason. My theory about this idea is this: if great artists (pick your person here) were just "normal" people, living "normal" lives, what would make them great artists? What would make them special? I think that the most gifted people are also the most "abnormal", because they see the world in a certain way and perceive things in a way others do not. That is to say, if Van Gogh was a family man with a spaniel, do you think he would have been able to paint Starry Night?

I don't.

And, if he could, then, what would stop the other 99.9% of the population from painting like Van Gogh  I guess what I'm trying to say is that, if Beethoven was a "normal" (I use this word liberally) person, he would do normal things. Writing the 9th symphony is not a normal thing. I think the reverse is also true. In order to create extraordinary things, you have to be something besides an ordinary person. You have to be sort of crazy to be gifted. Not crazy crazy, more like the Sheldon Cooper brand of psychosis. I would like to argue that the nature of being a talented person is being in possession of certain natural gifts that others do not have. Which, to me, means that talented people are intrinsically, genetically different. One can argue the definition of talented, but that's not really the point I'm trying to make. What I want to say is that, in order to be a truly great artist, you must have something that distinguishes you as a human being.

Whether or not this implies suffering is up to debate, but you are correct in saying that a lot of famous artists (painters, musicians, writers, etc.) seem to have live really depressing lives. Take Eric Clapton for instance (you know my proclivity to Eric Clapton; I think he's one of the best guitarist to have ever lived - right up there with Jimi Hendrix (also a tortured artist) and Jimmy Page), the Layla album, arguably his best work, came out of heart break and heroin abuse. It's the same thing with Francisco de Goya, in my opinion one of the best painters who has ever lived (after Klimt). The Black Paintings, The Third of May 1808, and The Second of May 1808, all came out of the incredibly dark period at the end of his life, by which time he had gone deaf and experienced the Peninsular wars. Sure, his earlier paintings are happier, but these are some of the most interesting, most fascinating paintings I have ever seen.

Of course, all of this raises the question I would like to ask you: is it possible for a great artist to be ever, truly happy? Is misery a pre-requisite to great work? And, if yes, how does this affect our reading of 'happy' works of literature?

María

Lana Del Rey Sings one Strange Body Electric

Dear Maria,
So, as you know, I'm kind of a Pandora addict. I've discovered some of my favorite artists there, such as Foster the People, Florence and the Machine, and Lana Del Rey. Yet lately, I've had a love/hate relationship with the latter artist, especially after coming across this gem:

Now, I don't know about you, but a song that starts with "Elvis is my father, Marilyn's my mother, Jesus is my bestest friend," is bound to gain some attention. I'm not one to question song lyrics too often--I normally just hop around to a lively beat--but I couldn't help but pull an Alex Day here and analyze Lana Del Rey's song. So, I've come up with a little plot to help make sense of these words.

So Elvis and Marilyn Monroe decided to get nice and steamy one night, because as we are aware, Elvis loves 'dem hound dogs. Apparently he liked them older as well. But after their little bout of shinnanigans, a little Lana Del Rey was born. She grew up, ate Cheerios, and hung with her BFF Jesus, just like any little girl would. Jesus was quite the positive influence on little Lana, but his insight didn't quite get to Elvis and Marilyn, who decided it would be a fine time to go clubbing and thus, Lana explains, "We get down every Friday night, dancin’ and grindin’ in the pale moonlight." So there's Lana, Elvis and Marilyn, all gettin' wild in da club. Presumably, Jesus had to stay home that night, but that didn't stop word from getting out to Mary.

Well. That wreaked some havoc, now didn't it? But Mary, in typical non-violent fashion, did little to accuse Marilyn and Elvis of immoral behavior. She just simply prays the rosary for Lana's broken mind, because obviously, that's what a best friend's mother does. Lana's all "thanks but no thank," and continues to high tail it over to the club. She's all in the zone, claiming that her body is on fire and whatnot, and that she can be the next Walt Whitman, which is totally ridiculous since I didn't see Lana writing any Leaves of Grass.

The family clubbing goes well for a while, but Elvis' drug abuse really starts to take its toll on Marilyn. She uproots herself out of the family situation, and decides to go for Whitman instead, seeing as her daughter was already singing this dude's song. Lana was all "okay, guess I have a new Daddy now, woohooo." It probably didn't matter much, since Whitman could use all his book royalties on money on which Lana could sustain her partying lifestyle. Elvis, not too happy with this slap in the face, decided to marry Monaco. I have no idea who that is, so let's just say she's some faceless revenge wife, because really, who can top Walt Whitman?

Marilyn Monroe, that's who. Ooooh, burn.

So Mary, miraculously (and people say lightening doesn't strike twice!) is still in the loop, and she decides that Lana's rough lifestyle is just too terrible an influence for her son. So Mary forbids Jesus from chillin' with Lana, which hits Lana harder than we all expected, as she starts befriending inanimate objects such as diamonds. The girl really misses Jesus, but that doesn't make her want to prove to Mary that she can come clean. So, Lana keeps partying, and Mary keeps praying. I don't know what Jesus is doing, probably off doing something cool with fish, I don't know. But at this party, Lana meets this really hot guy named suicide, and they decide to go at it in some god-awful club bathroom. Lana, being all un-employed and whatnot, can't afford protection, so she gets preggers and suicide is all "not my fault, you should've known I destroy people." So Lana has this baby named Heaven, which, if you ask me, is kinda strange to name a baby, but this is post "Apple" and "Blanket" generation.

But just because Lana has this new life doesn't mean she's stopped missing Jesus. She still looks at those silly photos they took together, reminiscing about the times they had. It's the only reminder of youth she has. Here, Lana admits she is really in need of a washing machine because her clothes still smell like Jesus, who she hasn't run into in like, forever. Or maybe she's just soooo sentimental, which is just not practical for personal hygiene matters. Jesus' sudden abandonment does kinda hurt Lana, but she's not going to be the first to admit it, even if it was Mary being all overprotective and such.

But then Mary has this "aha" moment, where she realizes maybe she was being the party pooper after all, and that Jesus is this grown savior and all that. So why can't she have a little fun in da' club? Lana, jumping at the opportunity, get Suicide to watch her baby, and she and Mary get down and funky in the club, and everything is all fine and good.

Still don't know where Jesus is. Maybe he and Suicide are drinking some whiskey or something.

So this is what modern day music has come to.

Peace and Ponies,
Kira