Alan Moore, the crazy old man of Comics, once said this:
"My probably imperfect understanding of what is meant by pride in this context came during a magical exploration of the sixth sphere, undertaken as usual with one of my similarly minded associates, in this instance a musician. At one point during the event, I got carried away with a self-serving monologue on how special and wonderful creative people were, completely opiated by my own marvellousness. At this point, my glazed and trancing companion spoke for the first time in twenty minutes, making a single, gnomic utterance: 'A gold pig.' As soon as he'd said it he looked puzzled, told me that the phrase had just popped into his head, and advised me to ignore it as meaningless, which of course I was unable to do. It struck me, at the time, as a perfect image of the pride of artists: a gold pig. Flashy, brilliant, and valuable, but also vaguely squalid, absurd, and tasteless. It seemed to me that creators should not confuse themselves with whatever light comes through them. At best, they can take comfort in the clarity and lucidity of the window that their work lets the light into the world by. They can try not to block the light with their own shadow, they can try to widen their window or aperture, and they can take satisfaction in their success at this. But they are not the light."
As an artist (and, perhaps, particularly as a writer), I identify with this to the point of cringing apotheosis. If we're speaking the truth at all, if we're doing our job, living our vocation, at all, then we're Prophets. It has to be someone. But holy God, am I ever not a prophet. I wear the Deadly Sins around my neck every day of the week, I'm a train wreck. I'm not a prophet. Except, I am. I have to be. I've got this gift, this talent; and what am I gonna do, bury it? We already know how that turns out.
It was a long time ago, but I was once a callow youth. And back then, I had the opposite approach to this dilemma. Back then, I elevated myself: I felt that, as a creator, I was above "ordinary" folk. I reveled in my own transcendence. In simple terms, I was a d____bag. And then, for many years, I swung to the opposite extreme. I came to see that the "artiste" was, at best, an instrument of Truth, and that the art (dropping the capital A) was infinitely nothing compared to the destiny of the soul of a farmer who might happen to glance at the art and find a moment's inspiration. Eventually I bounced off the conviction that art was almost vanishingly insignificant.
But I'm swinging back, these days, to the belief that Art does indeed matter. Not in and of itself! The Iliad and the Mona Lisa will burn and freeze when the universe dies. There's no immortality in this world. But it matters because it is indeed one manifestation of God's Creative Power within the creatures who bear His Image. Also it's important because it can be a vehicle of His Truth and Redemption; but what I'm trying to wrap my head around, these days, is that it matters even without that. It matters because the creation of Beauty matters, independently of Truth. Obviously Truth and Beauty go together. But it turns out that it's okay to focus solely on Beauty, and let the Truth worry about itself. In short, art for art's sake is in fact a worthy undertaking for a Christian. The Christianity will find its own way to the surface of the art, if the artist does his job.
I'm writing a novel about a vampiress whose destiny is entangled with the Blessed Virgin Mary. There's no way to tell the story without blundering through thickets of blasphemy and sanctimony. I keep wondering if I should just shit-can the whole thing; but then I remember that the Lord imposed a gift upon me. (Seriously, why do we call it a gift.) Of words, of writing, and I have to use it to tell my stories. I could write about something nicer, something less challenging. But that's not the story that's mine to tell. I can write about the Ultimate Dark and how it might just break upon the Ultimate Light, or I can go and bury myself for eternity. My personal sins of concupiscence and sulk are bound to infect the narrative, but then there's no perfect piece of Art—not even the universe itself. (Thanks to us.) All I can do is my damnedest.
And hey, who knows. Maybe I'll create something wonderful. I shall certainly try. If that happens, I hope someone out there will remember this blog post. And when (not if) I lose myself in vanity, I hope that someone will utter that phrase: A gold pig.
