More than Nature Hates a Vacuum

I am a writer. I am a musician. For the most part, I have been creating and practicing these art forms in a vacuum. I don’t like it at all. I’m also a Christian, a designation that complicates these other two: does that change—or should it change—how I feel about bringing writing into the world without a readership? Songs into the world without a listener?

Some people, other Christians in particular, think it should. Some of these people believe seeking glory or “the praise of men” is wrong, and I should just be content to sit back and wait on God. Well, I do believe in waiting on God, but I don’t believe it’s wrong to want someone—or a large group of people, even—to appreciate what I do. I’ll explain the key reason why in a moment.

For now, I want to discuss the word decorate. We use it often in association with art and art forms. When we hang a cherished painting, we are “decorating.” We usually think that means something like “making a room look pretty.” But actually, the word comes from the Latin word decoratus, which means “ornament” or “honor.” So, “to decorate” means something more profound: “to add honor to.” When I hang an artist’s painting, am I adding honor to the room? No. The room is an inanimate space. I am adding honor to the artist.

Is this wrong? Again, I don’t think so. How can it be, when art, by its very nature, is about conveying ideas, and those ideas basically cease to exist if they are not recognized, if there is no one to appreciate them?

I’ll be the first to tell you not all ideas expressed in art need to be honored. Their merits are a matter of taste or sensibilities, to be sure, but I think we can agree a song proposing murder contains less “honorable” ideas than a song proposing forgiveness. And if we “decorate” our lives (in the “make it pretty” sense) by choosing the song about forgiveness over the one about murder, are we not aligning ourselves with those ideas, endorsing them, if you will? We are. And more than that, while “giving honor” to the higher ideal, we are also decorating the artist behind that creation. That’s the spirit of the word “decorate.”

We often hear it spoken of soldiers, whom we decorate with medals of honor. When we do so, we are acknowledging the “rightness” of their actions; in effect, we are endorsing them in their sacrificial losses and acts of valor. And in so doing, we restore to the soldier some of the dignity of humanity—something war tends to strip away as a matter of course.

Sometimes, creating art can feel like fighting a battle. Seizing on an idea is just the beginning: the artist must find the best medium to convey that idea, then figure out how to do it in a way no other person has, in a way that speaks resoundingly to the souls of those who come in contact with that art. And now, we’re back to the beginning: the artist must then search for an audience.

I believe that in the searching for (and finding) an audience, something much more profound than artistic vainglory is at work: at the point of contact between artist and audience, a two-fold decorating takes place: the audience honors the artist, and the artist honors the audience. How? When I can speak resoundingly to the souls of those with whom my work resonates, I acknowledge their human dignity, their struggles, and their triumphs. I also honor the gifts God has given me, and if I can point someone toward God through the use of those gifts, so much the better.

Okay. I’ve held off long enough. The above reasons are important, but the key reason I believe it’s not wrong to want my art to be appreciated or understood by many people is this: my Christian teachings tell me I’ve been made in the image of God. He may have created in a vacuum, but He wasn’t content to leave it that way. After He created the heavens and the Earth, scripture says He created man and woman. And what do you think God wanted from them? Foremost, He wanted them to give Him honor—to decorate His achievements in creation. Why else would God pour out His infinite imagination? What good is a starry night sky, the achingly blue feathers of an indigo bunting, or the perfect crystalline symmetry of a snowflake without someone to notice? God seeks acknowledgement of His artistry from His creation, and He created humans to do just that. So, because I’m made in His image, I therefore share the same desire—and it’s a completely legitimate one—tucked inside every strand of my DNA.

Notice I didn’t say they would acknowledge Him. God left them free to choose. But for those of us who believe in a Creator, decorating God with the honor He deserves is a natural thing to do.

I know—someone is going to say, “But what you’re asking for is worship!” No, I’m not, no more than I “worship” my favorite songwriter or painter. God alone is worthy of worship, but for that to occur, I must at least first see His incredible, infinite hand in creation. And while it’s true some people do worship songwriters, painters, and writers, the true deficiencies of these gods come out sooner or later. In my case, it would be sooner, if not instantly.

No, I’m not looking for worship. But I would like some acknowledgement now and then that I’m using my God-given talents usefully, that I’m speaking deeply to the souls of those who can hear me. God sought it, and He created beings He hoped would give Him honor. But He left them free to exercise their wills.

Made in His likeness, I find creating in a vacuum as distasteful as He did. But unlike God, I can’t create an instant potential audience out of nothing.

Or can I?

Fiction's "Grand Ambition"

"If fiction works, it doesn’t work because it diverted your attention for five hours or three days. It should work as if you got into a space capsule and you lived another life, and you came back and it’s only Tuesday, and you’re carrying all the lessons with you from that other life. That’s the grand ambition and the opportunity fiction has."

Dr. Abraham Verghese uttered these words during my March-April interview with him as we discussed his latest book and first novel, Cutting for Stone. I've been thinking about them for a while now. What makes them especially true is his assertion that the lessons of fiction are transportable, even over vast spans of time, circumstance, and reason. We know that fiction is fiction, right? Well, yes and no. All fiction is based on fact. What else have we to build stories on? But the novel you or I hold in our hands conveys a kind of false, make-believe world to us. Those people and places do not exist in our world. Just try holding a conversation with one of them at your next dinner date and see where that gets you.

Yet, the "unrealities" of fiction--that is, fiction done right--can become the realities transported back to our world after the last page has been turned. As Verghese rightly states, what an "opportunity," what a "grand ambition" for any author to aspire to. Remembering a story is one thing, but remembering a story's lessons is quite another. I can remember the plot of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird (small-town white lawyer defends black man who's been framed in the 1940s south), but the lesson (prejudice hurts not only the persecuted, but the persecutors) is the real value, the real "point" of the story. It is Mockingbird's message of prejudice and its damage that I bring back to my world--hopefully to make a difference in it--in my "space capsule." There are countless other literary examples I could mention, and maybe you can think of your own.

If so, drop me a comment and let me know what's on your mind. Lessons are for passing on, after all.