Barren World

This morning while writing a friend, I stumbled over my own thought. I had written, "The Western World is not friendly to the artistic type." True, it's not a new thought. But when such a thought comes to me from my writer's eye or ear, it is new for me.

It has not been been easy being that vague term, artistic type, in the USA. "Claire is in her own little world. She needs to make more friends. We'll send her to swimming classes. And, for God's sake, she must improve her handwriting." A conventional script is so dull. I love my recognizable squibbles; it is me.

In the third grade, for some truly unknown/remarkable reason, I wrote a play and my teacher allowed me to assign players for the parts and even have out of class time for rehersals. I boldly called students' parents to request this or that costume or prop. My mother was alarmed. Was my teacher really letting me do this. It made no sense. Why did I need the gold silk jacket my Aunt had sent her from Singapore. (It is really pretty remarkable this happened.) I should have been praised. A special tutor found. The family gotten together to applaud the advent of a creator in their midst.

Of course none of this happened. I was told to pay more attention to my studies.

In college I wrote plays; they were produced. My parents never had time to attend. After all, it was a night drive of 30 miles. Did no one see this birthing being aborted. Was there no one to say, Stop. She needs our help."

Instead my parents said how much they hoped I would reconsider and get my teacher's certificate. I did not; neither did I apply for graduate school and the promised Ph.D. sinicure job of high respectability.

I did not know who I was . I took writing classes/so many. In New York, Boston, Maine.
All were hot with ideas of how to write to publish. And I wasn't ready, felt again a failure, left out, out of step even with the people who seemed to be my peers.

I was the kind of woman who liked to touch polished wood. Who in MOMA would long to touch the Rodin sculpture marked DO NOT TOUCH.

In a sad wistfully lonley sort of way, I moved through my thirties. Picking up odd shaped stones, pretty colored glass, an interesting twig, and best of all a bird's feather, still white and clean/mysterious.

My husband said it was time to get myself together. We had people for dinner. And I made every effort to remember who was Secretary of State and what was going on in NY politics.

I watched writers like Anne Beattie publish young and move on to notable careers. Or Anne Tyler. I admired them. But my step was still off/still not on track. I was not ready. Maybe some artists do not need nuturance; I did.

This world had no class or tutor or place for me to go. So the journey was in darkness. Often in shame. I was one of the lucky ones, who did not, as Ginsberg said, "go down in madness."

I ran a lot. Scurrying from my true world to the real world where I worked, went to the theatre, read books, and travelled.

But in those times when I would draw apart to play with my pickings of the week, I would be most comfortable. Building transitory sculptures out of my rocks. Viewing the colored glass held up against the sun. Using my twigs to scratch words in the earth. Smiling at the music of those words. And my invisible characters.They were always with me. I scribbled down their words.And I told no one.Showed no one.

I walked in shame at my difference. My inability to be like other people. Why was I not Anne Tyler. And I never looked clear at my own face and valued that above all.

Perhaps some day the world will honor its artistic souls. Their ability to produce wild energy, passion, and a resounding generation of rebirth for the world. The world will applaud. We will be honored. Sea glass and twigs will find their place and young poets and dancers out of step, will find mentors to help them take that first riveting look in their own mirror.

So, be gentle when you see the woman kneeling to pick up her different shaped pebble. It is our future. Claire Holcomb