created, =this.created & modified, =this.modified
tags:y2024
rel: The Madness of Art
In Henry James’s short story “The Middle Years,” an ailing writer is troubled by the conviction that only now, after many books, has he begun to find his true voice. All the work he’s done so far has been nothing more than a sort of apprenticeship, in preparation for the truly great work that he’ll be able to do if only he is granted more time.
In the story’s last pages, the writer comes to accept the fact that he’s dying. He won’t get more time. The magnificent works that he might have written will never be written. What he has done already is all he’ll ever do.
The artist’s calling is to do what one can, to give what one has; the artist’s calling is to explore one’s doubt, one’s task, one’s passion. And the madness of art? The madness of art is everything else.
THE USUAL interpretation of the phrase “the madness of art” conjures up an attractive cliché: the writer as a creature possessed, spilling out words in a divine frenzy.
the ability to consecrate yourself to the daily task of art isn’t rooted in madness. As James knew, as Dencombe knew, it’s rooted in sanity. The “Middle Years” is a story about the passionate sanity of the artist. It’s a story about the sanity of art.
This artist exists because it must. Madness is this teetering. If it were to be given approval, or is part of some constructive project then it would be seen less as madness. Because it is such a project, and done in darkness and ritual it is madness.
Michelangelo
On his death bed he said he was sad to die when he was just learning to be a competent artist.
Ancora imparo - “I’m still learning”