Reality in Art

There are only a few great films. Very few movies are worth seeing for more than time-killing, and very few of those are worth seeing more than once. That’s why it’s inspiring to see a film that’s truly a work of art. On the big ya hoida ‘em scale, for my money it’s the Coen brothers, Ridley Scott, Christopher Nolan and about every third Tarantino film. Performances by Daniel Day Lewis, Judy Dench, Gary Oldman, Ed Norton, Emma Thompson.

A great film—say Tarantino’s Inglorious Basterds—can be watched in non-chronological segments. You can soak in the film without bothering with the narrative. Film is so much more than narrative. True, I’m too much a lover of the traditional and I have to watch things in single sittings—can’t count the number of times I’ve seen Barton Fink—but good to know that the option exists.

Great film rarely makes any attempt at imitating reality. It’s noteworthy when we see something that reminds us of our own world on film. Great film has to be unreal, that’s why it’s art—but it’s taken for granted as an art form; this is because it presents so much less for the viewer to have to fill in—as media like writing and painting require.

Does fiction suffer the same downfall? Can it never capture reality?

An interest of mine is writing dialogue in fiction. Consider: dialogue is a writer quoting supposed speakers. It’s a lie right off the bat. Is it possible to depict conversation—real conversation with us interrupting each other and talking at the same time and having ten minute conversations that say little and do nothing to advance the plot—without describing what’s happening, to just show it?  

Is fiction a different kind of art, allowing for more reality than film, painting or photography? There are supposed “real” forms of all of the above. Documentary films—and I’ve seen some brilliant ones—are still created, because they’re pieced together. Editing is a more important step in creation than the genesis of an idea. Portrait and landscape painting capture an image as the artist sees it. The photographer assumes the viewer will fill in what is around, behind, before and after an image—all created. So, what is “reality” at all? Is it just as much a loaded and useless a term as “normal”?

Does fiction transcend the rules? Is it more capable of presenting reality because it can leave more out? This calls for creativity on the part of the reader, but readers will—usually, I assume—fill in the bits they don’t know with what they know would exist in reality. Which is, again, a form of creativity.

Can art capture reality? Should it? Or is it meant just to reflect features of reality in a cohesive, creative form?

Life

Recently, I spoke at a high school graduation and tried to be uplifting. I think it’s a regrettable habit of the old to be a bit cynical when imposing our wisdom upon the young—we want to remind them that life doesn’t always turn out as you plan. This often strikes me as veiled excusing for a pathetic life.

Life doesn’t turn out as you plan. Accept it. Life is not the car, it’s the road. You aren’t in control, you can only navigate to the best of your ability.

I’ve been thinking about life a lot lately, because in the past dozen days I’ve experienced the birth of a son and the death of a friend. I have learned some things about this enigmatic existence, and most of them tell me that what I don’t know is often what’s best.

I have two sons. Every day I question how I’m measuring up as a father. My wife and I look at our boys and say, “Wow, we made those? Really? Hard to believe we’re capable of such wonder.”

The world moves faster as you age because it’s smaller. You want to find peace, excitement and grandeur in the world again? Study it with a child. Lying on your belly watching an ant carry a dandelion seed across a patio stone is nirvana.

When you have kids, you learn what in the rest of your life actually matters. Very little you do can justify taking time from your kids. I read a lot less, write only once a day, play with my band rarely, and I haven’t spent any quality time with my computer since 2008.

There is nothing more glorious than napping with a sleeping baby on your chest.

. . . Unless it’s a toddler saying, “Daddy, I yove you.”

I have heard that some men aren’t as attracted to their wives after seeing them give birth. Asinine. Nothing can make you fall deeper in love like watching your wife mother your children.

You can have all kinds of highfalutin philosophies about proper parenting before you have kids; ideas on soothers and nap-times and circumcision and Baby Einstein and discipline will be completely rethought once you’re on the job.

The littler the arms, the better the hug.

If you don’t care about making the world a better place once you’ve seen what it means to the innocent, you don’t have a soul. They say you should be the person your dog thinks you are. I propose we make the world the place our children think it is.

Kid + pen + paper = art. Always. It doesn’t matter whether it’s on your power bill or your wedding certificate or your final exams or your novel manuscript. Art.

We were convinced our second son was actually going to be a girl, we even sort of started planning her future. The moment your kid is born, you’re so in love with him that all preconceptions go poof and you can’t imagine anyone but this one.

I’m not telling experienced parents anything they don't know. I’m sharing my joy not my wisdom. I’ve had a couple of conflicting weeks, it’s a cliché to call it a roller coaster but it’s sure as hell felt that way.

Four days before Father’s Day I earned my right to celebrate that day a second time. I’m good at many things, but I was born to be a dad.

My life hasn’t turned out how I thought it would. Mostly, it’s been better. Yes, really. For I have learned that the greatest experiences are the unexpected ones.