A new study on why art matters

 

A cookbook combining writing and cooking.
Part of the ars?

When iconic Texas novelist the late Elmer Kelton told his father, a ranch foreman all his life, that he wanted to be writer, the elder Kelton gave his son a look that “could have killed Johnson grass” and said, “That’s the trouble with young people. They don’t want to work.” Elmer by his own admission never made a ranch hand, but he made a heck of an important Texas writer. Does it matter?

Almost every congressional fiscal resolution includes motions to defund the National Council for the Arts and the National Council for the Humanities, on the theory that the money could be better spent in more practical ways. In the US the arts usually play second fiddle to business and “practical” matters. Perhaps it’s our Puritan heritage, when art was suspect of being at best unorthodox, dangerous, and at a worst a tool of Satan. Perhaps it’s the more modern reality, as Elmer’s father thought, that it’s hard for a young person to make a living in the arts. Nonetheless the notion remains in too much of society that the arts are frivolous.

“The arts” is an umbrella term. What, really, does it include? When people hear the word, they usually think visual arts—painting and sculpture—with the performative arts next—theater, dance, musical performances, etc. And finally poetry. Somehow creative written works are often left out of the mix. And yet, they require as much creativity as the other arts. So I often include books in the definition and even that is too narrow, but it may be the best we have at the moment.

Writing in the “Maine Crime Writers” blog, author Dick Cass reviews the book Your Brain on Art, by Susan Magsamen and Ivy Ross, an exploration of the ways that art and science, instead of being antithetical, actually come together. Our brains need both, and art, instead of being frivolous, is essential to good physical and mental health. Here are some of the research-based findings that Cass reported from the book:

·        Music with a rhythm of 60 beats a minute can synchronize with human brains to produce alpha waves, the brain frequency associated with rest and relaxation. Take it down to 40 beats or so and the rhythm synchronizes with delta waves, associated with sleep. Music can also help rewire the brain after a stroke.

·        Colors have a biological effect on human thinking and emotion. The color red raises the galvanic reaction in humans, how much sweat glands react, more than colors like green or blue. In one study, people in a gray-painted room displayed higher heart rates than people in a more colorful room.

·        Research into architecture shows that building with elements like curves instead of straight walls can reduce the blood pressure and heart rate of the people living within.

·        Imaging studies show that poetry has neurological benefits. Reading poems lights up the part of the brain associated with restful states, and rhythm is something our brains are hardwired to respond to.

·        Coloring, drawing, even doodling stimulate the prefrontal cortex, the area of the brain that keeps us focused and interprets sensory information.

·        Research even supports the notion that people who engage in art have a lower risk of developing chronic pain as they age.  

Note that the last finding specifies people who engage in art, not passive recipients who study paintings on a wall in a museum.

Are you familiar with the concept of Tikkun olam, literally meaning “repairing the world.” It’s a Jewish concept, although echoes are found in many Christian teachings and writings, that each of us is obligated to leave the world a bit better than we found it, to contribute something to the good of the universe. I worry a lot about that, because I fear I write frivolous things—young-adult literature, light mysteries. Yes, I hope my historical fiction brings a greater understanding of history and women’s place in it, but there are all those other works. What, really, am I contributing? Cass’ article and the book have made me turn my doubt on its head. The question is not what am I contributing through my art, but what is my art enabling me to do for others? Is it because I write, a creative activity that stimulates both brain and body, that I am able to write historical fiction and even some young adult novels that may shape some pre-teen’s reading.

The creative arts are not something self-indulgent nor something to be lightly dismissed. They are part of the total development of an individual.  Kurt Vonnegut put it so well: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.

I think my avocation of cooking even falls within that category, along with writing. They are both activities that allow me to share some of me with the world at large, whether it be a book you read, a recipe in a blog, or a dinner you share at my table. And I think that is a good thing.

Go, free your spirit, do whatever brings you pleasure (well, within reason)—it will help you grow.

A personal note on our family woes: my brother thinks he’s a bit better, we are moving ahead with fixing the plumbing problem, and Sophie didn’t snap tonight for her shot (after three tries—I got a donut collar). Maybe writing about all that has helped.

Thank you for listening and sweet dreams.

 

 

A useless day—or a day when I was useless

My brother and me, in happier days

Truth is, probably no day is totally worthless; each has some redeeming quality. But I am hard put to find much good about today. No, it was not a bad day. It was just a day, a plain day, one when I didn’t know what I wanted to do and did almost nothing. I checked emails in the morning and made chicken salad for our dinner, so it could cool and blend its flavors in the fridge all afternoon. And then I fiddled, manufacturing things to do, avoiding what I’d set as my goal for the week.

You see, I’m almost at the end of the first draft of Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I have the end—the climactic scenes, if you will—in mind, and I think I know how they should go. But I am avoiding putting the words on paper. I think in part I’m afraid to ever call the silly, short book finished, and in another part I’m afraid the end won’t work out as I intend it to. With Irene, one never knows. The entire cast of characters could take off in their own direction and spoil what I think are my plans. So I piddled.

And I didn’t know what to blog about. It’s been a different day—my brother is in the hospital again, just down the street from us. I knew last night they had requested transport from Granbury to Fort Worth where his cardiologist is but there were no beds at the hospital. And then all day today, I knew nothing and was afraid to call, maybe because I didn’t want to intrude or interrupt and maybe because I feared bad news. Finally at six o’clock, I called, he answered, and we had a short but semi-reassuring conversation. When I asked if we should come visit him, he said his dance card was already pretty full. And then he said it was complicated to get there, and I thought he was thinking of me in my transport chair. I have found in the past that hospital has a lot of twists and turns, and you can get lost if you don’t know where you are going. So we will talk again tomorrow.

Also today, Jordan’s new cat went to be neutered, which didn’t affect me much but did throw a monkey wrench in scheduling. They took him eight and were to pick him up at three. Then I called Sophie’s vet because we discovered an abscess on the back of her neck. I had a faint hope he would prescribe antibiotics over the phone, but no—he wanted to see her. Diabetes complicates infection. Jordan took her at eleven and, to my dismay, they kept her. Then they called and said she could go home at three. Schedule conflict! No way the kids could have the dog and cat in the car at the same time. It all worked out: they got the cat, Jordan and the cat came home, and Christian got Sophie about four. She is home, has some antibiotics, and my wallet is a lot lighter. But I am grateful she didn’t spend the night.

Last night we had a farewell happy hour for my Canadian daughter and her husband—I fixed a spread instead of just a light snack, because I knew they would have packed their kitchen and couldn’t cook. Pigs in a blanket, devilled eggs, veggies with a dip, olives, pickles, cherry tomatoes, etc. We had a pleasant evening, and I worked to avoid topics on which we disagree, but somehow the subject of money ruling the world came up. Reluctantly I realize it’s true, but I hate it; she accepts it with a degree of cynicism that frustrates me. When Sue said she as always proven right, I didn’t remind her that she had absolutely guaranteed that trump would win in 2020 because money rules—and he didn’t. But I hated that a touchy subject came up when who knows when we will see them again.

So maybe all that baggage was on my mind tonight and kept me from writing or, until now when it is almost midnight, from blogging. Who knows how creativity works? Tonight, because I as so at loose ends, I took a nap about eight-thirty and that was when I really came to grips with how out of sorts I felt. So I got up, came to the computer, and deliberately wrote three sentences. And I felt the muse kick in, I knew where I was going. It was too late to keep at it, but now I’m fired about tomorrow. I had promised myself I’d write a blog post first thing in the morning, so I turned to the book I’m currently reading. And then it occurred to me that if I wrote the blog tonight, I could go right to the novel in the morning. And sort of what I wanted to say flitted around in my mind. So that’s why these cobbled together thoughts on creativity and indolence.

Sweet dreams all. I hope I dream of Irene wrapping up that story in her usual fine style.

Celebrating and thoughts on resting

 

Jamie, Jordan, and Sophie

It’s a big anniversary in the cottage tonight. Twelve years ago today Jordan, Jacob, and I along with all the Frisco Alters—Jamie, Mel, Maddie, and Eden—went to Safari Kennels outside McKinney to look at labradoodle pups. The labradoodles, only six weeks and too young to take from their mom, were sleepy and a bit disappointing, but the kennel owner said

Maddie and Sophie

she had one eight-week-old bordoodle (border collie/poodle) left. Sophie came charging into the room, full of love and kisses and curiosity and mischief and just plain joy in life. She was a wild puppy and still has her wild moments, but she has brought all of us so much love and laughter. I’m so glad you’re ours, sweet girl. After a close call this winter, she seems pretty feisty for an “elderly” lady. Makes the two of us old ladies together.

On our way home

Everyone is back where they belong. Jacob, home from two weeks at camp in Colorado, which he said was awesome, and Jordan, home from several days in Key Largo at the home of the parents of one of her good friends. It’s good to have them home and be in our routine, although Christian and I (and the dogs) survived nicely. Christian went over and above as a caretaker. I have mixed thoughts on caretaking but will save them for another time, because once again this morning’s sermon is on my mind.

Last week, Reverend Renee Hoke talked about the Sabbath and gave us one practice word for the week, “Delight.” We should delight in God’s presence in our lives, on the Sabbath and throughout the week. It involves, she said, detaching from the world around us, from the need to take control. Her example? One was watching a hummng bird feed.

This week, the word was “Rest,” from the commandments and word that on the seventh day God rested. Rev. Hoke pointed out that rest is not just sleeping. There are those moments during the day when we all need to unplug from what’s going on around us and in our lives. I am not good at unplugging, and that is sometimes a worry to me. My mind is always restless. I don’t for instance, watch TV or listen to podcasts because I need the visual to keep my mind focused. I’ve been known to scroll through emails while listening to something on the phone, and those “live chats” online with their excruciating slowness are painful for me. A colleague once said to me, “Your motor is always running too fast.” I chastise myself for this, feeling it’s a character deficiency that I can’t, say, meditate for half an hour and keep my thoughts focused. Rev. Hoke talked about retreats she attended where that was expected, and she stressed that it is hard work. I’m still working on it, still working on focused prayer.

But there is one way I can “rest.” When I was a kid, my family had a cabin, really rustic, on a high dune in Indiana, at the very foot of Lake Michigan. I liked nothing better than to watch a storm come roaring down that lake, stirring up the lake into ferocious whitecaps. There was one spot, halfway up the dune, a small outcropping, where I would go and sit, my arm around the wild collie mix we had then. At sunset, if I looked at just the right spot across the lake to the west, I could see the sun going down behind the buildings of Chicago, which looked like dots or at best toothpicks. For most of my adult life, when I needed to unplug, that is where I went in my mind. Today, I may also go to the rocking chair at the edge of the water by the tiny lake/large pond at Colin’s house. But going to those places in my mind is the closest I come to unplugging.

Lately though I’ve been thinking about another aspect to rest—and that’s my daily nap. I do my best thinking, especially about planning what I’m writing, when I nap. I frequently lie down with a specific problem in my head, and when I wake, I have an idea of the path forward. Sometimes it takes a few days, but it eventually works out. And I find that I write scenes in my head several times before I commit them to the computer—same with a lot of blogs.

Authors often talk about writing only as far ahead as you can see in the headlights. E, L. Doctorow is credited with saying, ““Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” This weekend, the headlights gave out on me on the current Irene story, and I was stymied, but tonight after resting on it more than once, I think I see the road again. Yep, rest is not only curative but creative.

 

How about you? Do you have a special safe spot where your mind can go, even if your body can’t follow? Do you find rest creative or curative? Can you unplug?

 

 

Mindfulness on an ordinary day--or not

Today was an ordinary day, the kind when nothing big happens except a trip to Central Market. The kind of day I enjoy, but also the kind that makes me think I have time to be self-aware, to meditate, to, as some would say it, get in touch with myself. There are lots of huge questions lurking in my mind, from what do I really want out of life to how will I plot that next novel but I, like most of us, get so involved in the daily-ness of life that I push those questions to the back of my mind.

My brother recently told me that he read that mindfulness, that state of living in the present moment, observing your thoughts and actions as though from a distance without judging them good or bad, inhibits creativity. Oops! There goes that. I need my creativity, the right side of my brain. I’d have thought just the opposite—that mindfulness would enhance creativity.

A certain sense of distance is also one of the signs of anxiety—or at least it is to me. If I'm anxious I can feel as though I’m watching myself drive to the store, walk through the vegetable section, choose my dinner from the fish counter, joke with the guy at the checkout register.

So who are we to believe? Is it better to be in the present moment or experiencing it as an outsider? I guess to my mind it’s better to be actively engaged in the present moment—as a writer, I can store actions, events, feelings away for use later on.

On another but perhaps related note, I’m reading a wonderful book titled God’s Hotel: A Doctor, a Hospital, and a Pilgrimage to the Heart of Medicine by Victoria Sweet. Dr. Sweet worked for years at Laguna Honda, the San Francisco hospital for indigent, incurable patients—the last almshouse in the nation. To help her understand her patients, she studied the works of Hildegard, the 16^th Century nun who ministered to the poor. Hildegard’s medicine was based on observation and the four humors—if an ill person was too dry, he or she needed moisture; too wet, dryness was needed. That’s a simplification of what was really a complicated set of medical beliefs. But wrapped up in that—and in Sweet’s medical philosophy—is the concept of holistic medicine: treat the soul as well as the body. Much of the Laguna Honda philosophy and practice speaks clearly against modern medicine which divides the patient into physical parts. Sweet saw few cures but some were remarkable; more, she saw—and treated—the spirit of her patients. She saw them as people, not simply as patients.

I’m trying in my mind to link the Laguna Honda philosophy to the concept of mindfulness, and I guess what I keep coming back to is the concept of distance. Why should we distance ourselves from our lives—be it sickness, health, joy, sadness. I think we need to live in the moment, experiencing it as fully as we can. And that in itself is an art.

Rambling thoughts on a Saturday night when I’ve had an exceptionally good dinner and a nice glass of wine….