Good god. From scanning some of my previous posts it has come to my realization that I’ve begun to sound like Woody Allen playing himself in one of his own movies. Y’know, the hypochondria, the creepily minute details about mechanical failures of the body, the obsession with death . . . ENOUGH ALREADY!
About a week ago I waxed poetic about Martin Dockery’s live performance, Wanderlust, and how it knocked me into a different orbit. Been thinking about that, about the human yearning for epiphanies, the flaming thunderbolt upside the head, that massive cosmic EUREKA! moment that brings clarity and illumination where there was none, a brilliant flash in total darkness that somehow answers the question of our lives, our purpose, our interconnectedness with everyone and everything. Our tiny beings swept up in one giant ecstatic universal AHHHHHHHH . . .
Also thinking a lot about creativity, how we express ourselves, how we connect and communicate and bridge that artificial gap between ourselves and others through art, in whatever form it may take.
Which brings me back to thoughts about storytelling. In Martin Dockery’s case, the stories are his own, the experiences of his life. He has found a way to transmute his stories–perceptions and interpretations of the events he has lived–into a subtle and masterful description of the broad universal experience of what it means to be human. Which, in the end, is what art is all about. And the art of the storyteller is her or his life itself. So when Martin Dockery finishes a performance of Wanderlust or any other of his stories, the effects of his art reverberate in the lives of everyone in the audience, and they carry this with them when they go. They are changed by it, each in their own way. I know I was.
“Yeah yeah yeah,” you’re saying, “that’s the whole purpose of art, to challenge, to foment change, to shake things up, to disseminate the deeply personal message of the artist to as many people as possible.”
I guess I can’t shut up about it just yet because that experience really was my own personal flaming thunderbolt . . . and it kicked open some doors and unshuttered some windows, which changed the view from my room considerably . . .
Speaking of artists, the title song of Mark Knopfler’s Kill to Get Crimson is floating through my mind as I write . . . and as only MK can do, turns the dilemma of an artist into art . . . again . . .