The Art of Living

“Art is only a means to life, to the life more abundant. It is not in itself the life more abundant. It merely points the way, something which is overlooked not only by the public, but very often by the artist himself. In becoming an end it defeats itself” — Henry Miller

I often wonder how many artists, be they musicians, actors, painters, writers or other creatives, understand the perspective Mr. Miller so clearly expresses here. In today’s world of instant celebrity and the fame saturated media that bombards us daily, how hard it must be for those who have achieved artistic success or those striving to do so to step back, way back, and evaluate what being creative or artistic is really all about, what it really means in the great, grand fabric of existence.

I attended a concert recently at Michigan State University’s Wharton Center, a prestigious venue for world-class performers. The show featured the great jazz pianist Henry Butler, visiting the area from his home in New York.

In the 900-seat theater, almost filled to capacity, I sat as close as possible and behind the man’s piano so I could see his fingers on the keyboard. He played with the Professors of Jazz, a group comprised of stellar musicians who also teach in the university’s highly praised school of music. All were clearly in great awe of their guest, Mr. Butler, who led the band not only musically but with his dynamic presence and personality.

What struck me the most, as I watched and listened, was one simple thing: Henry made us all feel close to him. I told him that later at the CD signing table and he seemed genuinely pleased. Although I don’t know the gentleman I felt completely comfortable putting my hand on his shoulder, adding, “Not every great musician can do that.”

I’ve worked with artists who clearly see themselves as somehow above the world of plain living men and women. I’ve heard brilliant musicians whose sense of importance eventually ruined my ability to listen and enjoy. I’ve talked to writers who speak as if their thoughts, so richly put into words, are somehow deeper and more heartfelt than those who read them. At times, painters have described what they’ve placed before me as a work that could nearly cure disease.

Then there are the Henry Butlers. They are there as well, thank goodness. I do meet superb artists in all mediums who are sincerely humbled by praise and kudos, as well they should be. Then there are those who seem to see themselves as special and separate because of their talent and creativity, and it’s just not so. They/we are no more special than the woman who changes sheets at the local hospital or the man who files our tax returns.

As a writer, there are times when I feel, from those who struggle to express themselves, envy that I am able to communicate my thoughts and feelings quite easily. That pains me because I know full well who I am and I know who I am not. I know I have an ability, yes, and for that I’m grateful. But I also know the limitations of that gift. I know full well that my experiences are no greater than anyone else. Like an ant on a wall that is infinite, how can we ever gauge our understandings or experiences and compare them to the bug a few inches above or below us? And since the wall is infinite, there really isn’t an above or below, an up or down, a side to side.

As Oprah said once, the only difference between folks with a lot of money and those without it is that the rich know it doesn’t change the basics; it doesn’t bring happiness, it can’t shield us from our vulnerabilities or protect us from pain. It’s the same thing with talent and artistry. It doesn’t separate the artist from those who may never take a stage or have an essay read by the public. Imagination and creativity do offer us, the audiences and visitors to that world, a chance to escape into beautiful and joyful places within ourselves for awhile. In the end, however, there simply is no separation between the actor and the audience, the musician and the listener, painter and viewer.

As the Henrys discovered, both Miller and Butler, how much fuller and more fulfilling it is to understand the limits of art rather than create barriers between those who have creative gifts and those who may not, at least not overtly. In the end are we not all really creatives since we are all part of that grand and glorious creation called life itself?

Let’s allow Miller, Henry the last word here, for he surely understood the role of art and artist in the world we all share equally:

“Art teaches nothing, except the significance of life.”