Lorraine Hunt Lieberson began her career as an accomplished viola player. While on tour in Europe (in the late 1980s), her viola was stolen. She could have replaced it. As would be imagined, the theft threw her into a state of feeling lost and uncertain. She stopped playing. After awhile, Lorraine began to work with only instrument she had, her voice.
When asked, Lorraine stresses that her decision to go into singing happened quite naturally. "There were a lot of encouragements along the way, but no individual, earth-shaking event that made me change," she says. "But, back in 1988, when my viola was stolen, I took that as a sort of omen." (And although she hasn't yet replaced her stolen viola, she avows that "the viola is always with me in spirit when I sing.")
Interestingly, Lorraine is shy about being interviewed; she has no press agent. But when she sings she is known for an ever-widening swath of ardor and awe that she leaves in her wake. An intensity. Her voice--her singing--touches hearts and lives. The irony is that the gift--the artistry--she has given us all, began when life turned left.
Ask any class of kindergarten students, "How many of you are artists?"
How many raise their hands? Every single one of them.
Ask fourth graders. Maybe half.
Seventh graders. A handful.
Seniors in high school. Maybe one.
It's quite the educational system we have created.
We begin with artists, and we slowly wean it out of them.
I do know this: it is easy to lose sight of that artist that resides inside of each one of us. Whether lost or buried or stuck or forgotten or dismissed or ignored... or "stolen." (Whenever I lead a retreat, Crayolas are mandatory--because it is an unwritten spiritual principle that you cannot learn about life unless you color. It is curious then, how many--otherwise secure adults--will say, "I'm not very good at coloring." I will say, "Who said anything about being 'good' at it?" Our mind has already morphed from play and wonder to mastery and proficiency.)
When we tag or label or describe ourselves, "artist" is seldom used.
Where I was raised, artist was a phase you went through (a dream), you know, to grow out of, to, move on to something more useful and sensible--in order to get a real job.
Yes, of course we are all inner artists, but the cynical part of me tells me that it all sounds too much like a mantra meant to be chanted standing in a circle at a "be all you can be" conference. Sure, it all sounds good.
But I'm not sure what it really means.
In the opening scenes of
Shine, we first meet the middle-aged David Helfgott (played by acclaimed Australian stage actor Geoffrey Rush), babbling to himself incessantly and wandering in the rain, in a state of transition. Behind him is the isolated existence as a child piano prodigy whose emotional turmoil led to a nervous breakdown, and a series of stays in various mental institutions. Ahead of him is his eventual reconnection with the world around him, guided by both love and his virtuoso talent that has been long abandoned. We witness the awakening of the artist. In the movie (and in real life), David eventually moves toward that which gives life.
So, what is this
artist? It is the place in our spirit that births...
creativity,
enchantment,
imagination,
play,
risk
and wonder.
There is no doubt that we hide it. We don't believe it. Or we judge it as inadequate.
But here's the deal: The artist in David did not reside only in the talent or prodigy or genius, but in the spontaneity, vitality, innocence, passion and delight. And the artist in Lorraine wasn't detoured by life's unkindness.
For me, the tragedy is that (in the name of love) David's father (Peter) squeezes the artist out of the prodigy. But in truth, it doesn't always require a pathological "love" to hide or extinguish the light.
In the movie rendition, there is a scene that stops my heart. David and his father are walking home after a competition. David has placed second.
(In his father's eyes, anything other that first is a failure.) The father is seething, and there is no hiding his disgust. David has lived his entire life absorbing his father's pathology, doing his very best to make his
Daddy
happy. The father walks ahead, hurried, his spirit heavy. David follows. On the sidewalk, in chalk, there is a hopscotch pattern.The camera follows from behind, and we see young David unconsciously, intuitively, childlike, hopping and skipping and jumping--the joy and the light (and the artistry) of his childhood still alive.
I don't want to lose sight of that childlike artistry inside of me. I'm home for a week or so, and the garden is abounding and teeming with life and color and enchantment. The peony buds profligate, the bearded iris blooms beguiling, the columbine exquisite. The branches of the Japanese Maple, heavy with spring rain, deferentially bow. I once asked my analyst why I was in therapy. He told me it would make me a better gardener. Gardening can be strong medicine--an elixir that nurtures and shapes the soul. For that reason, it is a tonic seldom taken straight with no ice. Gardening has way of seeping into your soul, and one day you find yourself, in the words of poet May Sarton, spending the first half hour of the morning "enjoying the air and watching for miracles," the joy and the light still alive.
Notes: (1) Some insights about the movie Shine gleaned from http://www.mediacircus.net/shine.htmlshine
(2) I've received notes about difficulties with the website. My apologies for the inconvenience. We've worked on it and to the best of my knowledge, it's been fixed. Give it a try.
