Is it summer, or are we learning to be with the crooked floors in our creaky house (White House, America)? Somehow, I heard very little political talk during my travels this season. In the States, in Europe, people weren’t avoiding conversation, it just seemed too obvious, too much said, even irrelevant. Instead of doomsday desperation, I heard people bursting with the passion of their endeavors — poets whom they were rediscovering, spiritual space they were inhabiting, art residencies they were establishing.
Summer exuberance, maybe, or a collective decision to retire the word “resistance” for why we engage in the arts. It is always uncomfortable, in political crisis, to be defending against a firing squad (presumed, internal, external) about why we do what we do. Artistic conviction is becoming more ingrained and internal; it is enmeshed with complex realities, instead of part of a binary. The idea that “we” don’t need to give “them” more power is part of our daily bread. An internal compass has pointed us and draws us in the right direction.
We may not save civilization, or avert other disasters. We could be laying traces for future generations to nurture humanity. We might be like Hansel and Gretel dropping bread in the forest – like the Irish monks in the darker times, copying out texts for those who come after. Or we are simply making art, day in, day out.