Josh and I got into
our first heated debate of the trip today. Not a fight—since it was approached in a largely intellectual
manner—but certainly it was a passionate discussion containing several points
on which we vehemently disagreed.
Here’s how the story
goes:
We left Marfa behind
us (sadly, determined to get back there someday, and soon), and began the seven(ish)-hour
drive to Austin. Josh and I love
each other dearly and find each other infinitely fascinating, but after four
days of nonstop togetherness we were definitely ready for a conversational
lull. Today, we spent much of the
drive listening to podcasts of NPR’s This American Life. (Which are so damn good, by the way, so
if you ever have a long car or plane trip, think about downloading some. Yay Ira Glass!)
Somewhere around the
time the landscape transformed from desolate desert and mountain to a greener,
hillier central Texas, we were between podcasts and Josh brought up an
interesting point. “You love This
American Life because of the stories,” he said. “But your poetry isn’t particularly narrative.” And thus started our long, meandering
conversation about the nature of storytelling in poetry.
And This American Life
actually fed into it all perfectly.
On one episode, we learn about a 52-year-old man (Jerry) who’s
exhaustively listed his every daily activity since he was 10-years-old. From the interview, it seemed likely
that he was autistic, or in some way challenged, but that wasn’t the focus of
the piece. After detailing how his
friends and family thought the lists were insane, how they mocked him and/or
tried to talk him out of doing it, the reporter eventually wrapped it up with
his own opinion, which was that Jerry did it so he could feel like he’s done something with his life. In other words, it was his way of
telling his life story.
Which led Josh and I
to discuss autobiography and (because semantics came up a lot in this conversation) the use of autobiographical material in
writing. As a poet who recently
decided to try her hand at fiction in a dedicated way, I’ve found that I’m much
more comfortable (and excited) about writing wholly fictional stories than I am
writing poems that have no specific link to my own experiences and viewpoints. My process of poetry writing is totally
different than for writing fiction; for each, I’m using my imagination in a
completely different way. When I
write fiction, I’m imagining myself in someone’s life, and I’m trying to become
the megaphone for some (fictional) other person’s voice. Of course, everything I write is
informed by my opinions, politics, history, even gender, race and culture. The point is, though, I’m making up a
life I haven’t lived and becoming a person I’m not.
In poetry, I don’t do
this actively. Certainly my poetry
isn’t all (nor even mostly) true, if
there’s such thing as truth in art.
But much of what I write about is based in actual experiences I’ve had
and sights I’ve seen. They’re not
all me (and, as Josh pointed out, the very common assumption that the speaker
is the poet is generally a dangerous one), but to write my poetry I tend to
mine my life story for material.
So I feel that those particular pieces of material are autobiographical,
though a reader shouldn’t necessarily assume that by rote.
Josh’s issue here
seemed to be twofold. On one hand,
he thought that I was being pejorative, valuing writing that was wholly
fictional (or, specifically, that didn’t utilize actual events from a person’s
life) somewhat more highly than writing that used one’s own life
experiences. Like I thought there
was some lack of imagination present when a person used his or/her own story as
a basis for a poem. (And,
understand, we’re not talking about confessional poetry here, but poems in
which the writer, upon writing the poem, is using his or her own voice.)
But his objection
wasn’t true at all. I think
there’s good poetry of both sorts, and it takes equal imagination to take
something one sees and apply it outward, transform it, make it universal and
beautiful as it does to make up a person or an experience. Sometimes, in fact (and as I’m learning
as a fiction writer), embodying other people’s voices makes the work more flat,
more cliché, and less passionate.
So the objection that I find poetry begat by personal experience less
interesting doesn’t really hold water.
The second problem is more
complicated, though. Josh believes
that, on the reader’s end, assuming the poetry is autobiographical also assumes
that the poet has some obligation to or contract with “the truth.” Because he sometimes writes about
things he sees or does, then transforms them utterly, he doesn’t like the idea
of a reader believing the content of the poem in any way equals the content of
his life.
Which I agree with,
actually. All the reader can do is
decide if he/she enjoys the work or not…anything else (unless the author goes
on public record one way or another) is just a guess, or hearsay. The poems I write about me aren’t
wholly me, but an aspect of myself.
A persona, of sorts, and, if embodying my voice, only representing it at
that particular moment and in that particular circumstance and mood. Which isn’t the truth, if, again, there
is such a thing.
Another This American
Life story that informed our conversation actually had nothing to do with writing,
but was about art (harkening back to yesterday’s post.) These two artists conducted polls in
several countries to find out what people most wanted to see in visual
art. The first poll, of Americans,
found that people most liked to see landscapes, groups of people, and the color
blue. “Stupid Americans,” these
Eastern European artists thought, as they painted family scenes on or near
pretty blue seas. However, when
they started polling people in other countries, they found that people in every
single country they collected data from except ONE all wanted that same thing.
The black sheep? Holland. Those folks liked abstract art better. When the reporter on the radio program inquired why that
might be, the artist demurred, saying he wasn’t a philosopher. But maybe, he opined, it’s because they
live in a beautiful country already, with beautiful blue landscapes and not
much unrest, so they were just bored of the same pretty thing.
Yes, yes, I know: where
does this all fit in? Fear not…I have
a point! Josh mentioned (more than
once) that saying a poet writes autobiographically also implies that the work
is limited in scope. But more subtly, I think that perhaps the oblique insult
Josh imagined was some idea that writing about oneself means that one is
self-interested. That the “limited
scope” I’m supposedly accusing poets of is really just an inability to care
about things, stories, situations and ideas outside one’s own personal arena. Just like Americans, and citizens of the
other 12 countries the artists polled, who just want to see a pretty thing on
canvas….a pretty thing we’re all familiar with, or want to be familiar with.
Because, well, aren’t the people of Holland the cool ones in this story? The interesting ones? For wanting something new and exciting
and not as invested in their own little lives?
But honestly? Not really. I don’t think so, anyway. Because I love realism and I love abstract art, but I don’t
judge a work by what category it’s in.
I’d personally rather see a really kick-ass Eric Fischl painting than a
lukewarm Mondrian one. On the
other hand, I’d probably rather see an awesome Cy Twombley piece than yet
another well-wrought Madonna and Child.
Cool or otherwise, personal or fictional, it’s all about how good you
are. No?
So, Josh and I were
talking about the right way to end this post, and he thought I should consider
whether (and how and in what context) this conversation matters. Instead, I’ve decided to go out on a
limb and ask you, for your question of the day:
Does it matter whether artists get (some or
all) of their material from personal experience?