verb, not noun
May. 30th, 2008 12:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
adrienmundiI've been reading Art Objects by Jeanette Winterson this past week. It's a little book, for which I'm a sucker (something about the smaller than usual size, particularly of a certain heft and thickness, really appeals to me), about aesthetics (again, sucker) by one of the most skilled and provocative living writers I've read; in other words, it's so very up my alley.
I'm amused at my own bias in reading; the 'objects' in the title is verb, third person, present tense, not noun, plural. That realization was slightly jarring, and made me smile, because suddenly it all made sense in context.
As much as I love reading her work, I get the impression that I'm not her ideal reader. I'm not anywhere near as familiar with the British canon as she seems to assume is standard, and do not read for exactness as she calls for it(I think I read more for flow, impression and texture, something at which I think she excels). But she makes me think while reading beautiful text, and if you hit me in my critical faculties and my aesthetics at once, I'll do pretty much anything you ask (I often imagine, in my meta-experience of reading and the writer, that surely she knows exactly what she's doing, if not actively enjoying it).
Winterson talks about the conscious commitment to Art, to the muse, to words (and also images), and the combination of her prose and subject matter took me outside of myself for a moment. I had flashes of all of my frustration with and disparaging of my primary medium (words and language) and a snippet of one of my favorite Joan Armatrading songs, realizing that not only is it a weakness in me, but a lack of commitment, possibly a lack of trust (in myself, in my relationship to language, and possibly/occasionally some generative source(s)). The idea that this could be approached consciously, not accidentally or haphazardly, certainly not with indifference, seems very new and full of promise.
I love words. I think that's always been clear. I've also hated them, and been afraid of them; I think that, too, has been clear. But what if I could love what I love, and not be afraid? What if I could open myself up to the pleasure of the interaction, savor it as much as I'm able, without recoiling in bitter self-defeat and recrimination? I'm not sure I quite know how, but I have seen a familiar face in my mind's eye, smiling silently and happily, when I consider it, and it gives me hope.
I'm amused at my own bias in reading; the 'objects' in the title is verb, third person, present tense, not noun, plural. That realization was slightly jarring, and made me smile, because suddenly it all made sense in context.
As much as I love reading her work, I get the impression that I'm not her ideal reader. I'm not anywhere near as familiar with the British canon as she seems to assume is standard, and do not read for exactness as she calls for it(I think I read more for flow, impression and texture, something at which I think she excels). But she makes me think while reading beautiful text, and if you hit me in my critical faculties and my aesthetics at once, I'll do pretty much anything you ask (I often imagine, in my meta-experience of reading and the writer, that surely she knows exactly what she's doing, if not actively enjoying it).
Winterson talks about the conscious commitment to Art, to the muse, to words (and also images), and the combination of her prose and subject matter took me outside of myself for a moment. I had flashes of all of my frustration with and disparaging of my primary medium (words and language) and a snippet of one of my favorite Joan Armatrading songs, realizing that not only is it a weakness in me, but a lack of commitment, possibly a lack of trust (in myself, in my relationship to language, and possibly/occasionally some generative source(s)). The idea that this could be approached consciously, not accidentally or haphazardly, certainly not with indifference, seems very new and full of promise.
I love words. I think that's always been clear. I've also hated them, and been afraid of them; I think that, too, has been clear. But what if I could love what I love, and not be afraid? What if I could open myself up to the pleasure of the interaction, savor it as much as I'm able, without recoiling in bitter self-defeat and recrimination? I'm not sure I quite know how, but I have seen a familiar face in my mind's eye, smiling silently and happily, when I consider it, and it gives me hope.
