COLUMN: The song of the self

From Sonja Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96 From Sonja Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96The arts are risky, but creative expression is too important to be stifled by financial concerns. From Sonja Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96The arts are risky, but creative expression is too important to be stifled by financial concerns. When words stumble in the endless pursuit of expression, speech dwindles along its trail of sound and breath falters between long-winded cadences of communication, try enclosing yourself within the arms of pure silence. When you stop talking and start listening, you hear the most unusual things. I haven't a single, witty, respect-inducing answer left, so I've simply stopped trying to make up clever replies. I've ebbed this drowning flood of exegetic, empty speech. When I heard the inevitable query, instead of reciting another gingerly-woven Plan of My Life, I closed my mouth and stepped outside. The sun burned quietly above. I leaned on a bench and tipped my face to the wide sky, swallowing and breathing in the first drops of sunshine my skin had absorbed in months. The air was humming and alive, exploding with scattered light, crawling with hiccuped words uttered by winter-whitened bodies sifting along the Walk. And that's when I opened my ears and heard an exchange of ideas that brought my own blurry confusion out of the haze of uncertainty and into the slightly sharper focus of reality. "Whatever you do, don't go into the arts," someone was saying. I overheard this warning from behind my closed eyelids. Two people had apparently paused in conversation, resting momentarily from their hasty scramble to class. "Why not?" asked the second. "Because people don't care about that kind of expression enough to support its existence. It's not an essential part of human survival or prosperity. It's too risky." Instantly, my brain snapped to attention and I felt myself yanked out of my pervasive, foggy daze and thrust into their discussion. I had my own ardent retort to this argument -- a whole store of retorts, actually -- words that clamored noisily about inside my head, waiting to be set free. I kept listening. "Risky? In what way?" asked the other. "Well, let's face it: How can the arts possibly exist in a consumerist, material-hungry society? Who has time to pursue something which rewards you only if you're lucky, only if you're so talented that you practically walk an inch above the ground? Not me. I used to play the cello, but I could tell after a while that it wasn't going to get me where I wanted to be. So I quit. You're the exception to the rule if you can make a living in the arts. The odds are too risky for me -- and for most." I bit my tongue, but I knew she had a legitimate point. The fears she projected were indeed well-founded, rooted within not only the logical wish for success and security, but also in the diligent practicality and almost blind single-mindedness required for the realization of such goals. Perhaps she discerned no room for the arts within the swirl of these aspirations. Neither one spoke for a moment. I heard them breathing quietly as they stood by my bench. "Did you like playing the cello?" the companion asked, quizzically, after a ponderous silence. The answer seemed to have been trapped in the throat of the first, because her response did not leap from her throat into the open air. "Yes," she said at last, so quietly that I almost couldn't hear her. And then, softer still, "Yes. Very much." I sat still. My eyes were closed but I heard their voices trailing off as they turned and slowly began walking away. I felt their presence retreat gradually into the blur of bodies marching along in front of me. The last few words sank heavily into my consciousness. Maybe I'd only imagined the sadness trapped inside the voice that had confessed its love of music. Somehow, though, I don't think so. Sometimes I hear the same one speaking from within the walls of my own heart. And then I opened my eyes. All at once I was overcome by an indignant reaction to this person's fear. Yet it was an anger directed perhaps only inward, toward myself, toward the reflection of her voice buried within my own. I understood her sadness, yes, because it was also mine. But something about her consequent decision to turn her back on music filled me with such an biting, chilly gloom that I must have sat frozen for quite awhile, staring at the spot where two people had stood moments before. As the child of musicians, I do understand the hardships of this career path, the threat of its inevitable insecurity. But alongside these unavoidable struggles, I perceive a deep gush of freedom, a pervasive autonomy and self-directedness illuminating a bottomless, penetrating sense of peace. What's more, participation in the arts -- particularly in music -- has been shown to greatly improve our performance in other areas of academia. Children love to sing, draw, write and dance. So do most people of all ages, although they might not admit it. Why, then, should we ever stop? If you love music, don't turn your back on it. By walking away from the cello in your arms -- or from the pen in your hand, or the paintbrush in your fingers, or the voice in your throat or any of these expressive outlets -- you might also be walking away from a more complete sense of your natural, centered self. You might be leaving behind the qualities which make you, simply, you: a creative human being. We are artistic creatures. We strive to express ourselves in meaningful, original ways, and we are connected to each other by our intrinsic love for the shared human need to create. Each of you is an artist, even if the world doesn't pat you on the back because of it. And I suppose I still don't have much of a response to the unresolved and ever-present question of The Future. It remains largely unknown. I shall have to settle for this uncertainty. But at least I can accept, finally, without the careful security of my own words, that I do and always will support, feel, listen to and love music with my whole, beating heart. I guess I'll just follow the pulse of that sound. This is all I know.