Mediocrity: meanness and indifference

"Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, but talent instantly recognizes genius."
       ~Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

"But because thou art Lukewarm and neither hot nor cold, I will begin to vomit thee out of my mouth."
      ~Revelation 3:16

After reading Jenna's post in this round of our discussion, I am certain we are working from different understandings with regard to mediocrity.  I checked to be certain that my definition is a legitimate one, not merely my own reactions and responses to Kierkegaard and Christ in their united disgust with the mediocre, and my little dictionary confirmed me when it provided synonyms such as "indifferent," "mean," and "non-person." I"m comforted. Especially as this post is written quickly, sandwhiched between a late-morning nap and strawberry canning with moja Matka, who is up anticipating the birth of her first grandchild.

Mediocrity in my understanding is the failiure of the person to be a person, to be an active participant in his own life. It is the pursuit of the "good enough" and not the Good - attempting Purgatory, not Heaven, and in doing so, failing to reach either. Mediocrity fails to create Art because it is indifferent to Beauty, and uninterested in effort - it lacks not only talent but desire. Rilke describes the mediocre life, when he writes that being alive and being awake are acts not states, and it is necessary to do them,  not simply fall into them. The state of not being dead, but not acting as a person alive is the state of the mediocre. He refuses to chose, to become either hot or cold, and in the end is "spit out," having been "neither one of the living nor one of the dead." (Rilke). Because of this, because mediocrity is alway comfortable in it's indifference, it is like Acedia, the noonday demon that Kathleen Norris describes so well. It sucks the life and the passion from man and sinks him into despair and inhumanity, and "mediocrity is always guilty" (Kierkegaard) of forming a sort of self-deception in the person, keeping him from seeing anything higher than himself.

Mediocrity is a temptation at various times, for the artist, and for the person. In life, mediocrity tempts us to fulfill the law without love, to rest in the feeling that we are better than some, and worse than others - just an ordinary, everyday person, with no need to pursue perfection. In art, it produces similar results: I'm good enough, I paint nice flowers, people like them, why work for more? It is an attitude, not a measure of skill.

If I have time this week, I may come back to this. Read and think and write again - because I am spending so much time right now looking at my clock and knowing I need to rush off again.

"Work is the curse of the drinking classes."
      ~Oscar Wilde

I have been meaning to make my vodkas this month. Ideally, I will do it before the baptism, as vodka is such a celebratory drink, and I would like to be able to celebrate properly. I don't distill vodka - that would take too much time, and too much skill - I merely infuse it with flavor: lime, orange, and black tea are easy favorites. I may try pepper at some point, though it would seem to fit better with cold weather. Given a month, I can make Krupnik - a honey, spice vodka especially popular at Easter. I don't have a month though.

We have silver vodka cups that need polishing, and a good number of shot glasses that show the colors well. I'm looking forward to pulling them out again and passing them around in joy.

"I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day."
       ~Vincent Van Gogh

Tomorrow is the feast of St. John the Baptist. Tonight is noc Kupaly, and if you go out at midnight to wander in the woods, it's possible to see the fern flower which opens the eyes of the finder to the hidden world of magic and fairy. 

The fern flower blooms only at midnight on St. John's Eve, and only rarely then. If a wanderer is lucky enough to see it, she must never let her attention be turned. All the evil beings of the forest gather around her, gibbering and whining, to catch her notice, frighten her, and cause the flower to wither before it blooms: cursing the viewer, and leaving her defenseless against the demons that surround her.

If she can wait with the flower as it opens - glowing in it's own red light - the finder will be blessed by it with all the good things the fairy-world can give: wealth, luck, discernment, and protection against witches, demons, and danger. The finder is also granted the ability to see the future in the fires that burn on noc Kupaly.  She can ask her questions and watch as the flames dance out the story of the years ahead.

I won't be hunting for the flower this year, though I can imagine finding it, blooming beneath our birches, where our three ghosts stay. But I don't know if it could keep my attention from the darkness all around. I'm afraid I would look at the evil ones, and right now, feeling the burden of my baby's weight, I worry about cursing the child before birth. Besides, I can see my future already - stretching out before me like a great lake of joy. I have no questions for the Kupaly fire this year.

The Artist as Other

"If your everyday life seems poor, don't blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth it's riches; for the creator there is no poverty and no indifferent place."

~Rainer Maria Rilke

In her most recent post, Jenna mentions that "You can have meaning without beauty..but beauty always speaks. It haunts and comforts.." It is a point I like, and one I can agree with. Beauty does speak, it triumphs, and this is the "ancient, communal role" (Kathleen Norris) of the artist - to delve deep into the experiences of his world and birth beauty, to "call forth" the riches of everyday. 

In so many ways, the role of the artist is similar to the role of the prophet, a "necessary other" existing and creating, not in "untrammeled freedom" but in an "exacting form of discipline" (Kathleen Norris) that submits the Artist to the demands of his vocation and demands from him not only talent, but devotion and commitment as well. It is a communal role, a social role - creating the "lie that tells the truth" (Picasso) and presenting the world as it really is, in all it's intimacy, passion, failure, and ultimate, glorious beauty. That is why, when the artist fails to call forth the riches of his world, when he calls his world poor, empty, and uninspiring, he fails to create art. I agree completely with Jenna that beauty can be found in the simple and humble aspects of everyday life, but it is the artist's ability to become intimate with these things, to nurture them into fruition that creates art - the process of "seeing, knowing again, and being welcomed" (Rilke).

"the Icons are whispering to you

they're just old men, like on the benches in the park
except their balding spots are
glistening with gold."

~Regina Spektor

 In an attempt to answer a side question of Mr. Pond's without derailing the week's topic, I thought I'd attempt to explain Art in relation to Icons. Icons are not Art. When we treat our Icons as art, we diminish their role in our lives. Icons are a presence, the opportunity for the Saint to enter our lives in a fuller way than a statue or "religious image". That is why we greet our Icons, kiss them, and leave them uncovered to watch with us in the sorrows of Holy Week. Art is "a lie that tells the truth." as Picasso and many others have said, which is why men and Icons, no matter how beautiful, are never "Art" though they may be "artistic" and are certianly beautiful.

It is sometimes hard to develope a taste for the beauty of Icons: the living eyes that follow us throughout the day, the colors and gestures that mean more than they appear to, Icons are something more than religious art and it is by coming to know them, as we know our friends - being intimate with them as we are intimate with each other, that we can develope a true understand of who and what they really are.

I have more gardening to do. I never really thought about
 the effort required to carve a garden from a forest floor.
 It involves a good deal more work than I would like.

But progress has been made, and in this late season,
we aren't the last to put in our seedlings and watch them grow.

The baby loves my husband's music almost as much as I do. Luba

is the only one who would rather nudge his hand away and sniff

at the strings than listen. She has no ear for music, obviously.

Reflecting

"Once you label me, you negate me."
     ~Soren Kierkegaard

It's nice, actually, to be taking a break this week from the discussion that's been going on between Jenna St. Hilaire, Mr. Pond, and myself. I'm glad to have this week to simply be, and to reflect on the discussion that's happened so far. She left for the week asking "What is beauty?" and that is something, perhaps that we ought to have settled on at first, it might have clarified our earlier discussions, it might have removed some of the uncertainly that led to disagreement.

What is Beauty? Simply speaking, Beauty is the visible form of the Good.

Mr. Pond, who seems to be under some illusions about my philosophical ideals will be somewhat surprised to learn that this definition is not essentially Platonic, but Catholic (in both senses of the word). While there are aspects of Plato in Catholic thought, Plato is not the essential, he is absorbed or dismissed according to his ability to fall in with what is understood to be True. Plato has lovely ideas, but he's been eclipsed. The tendency to say, this is Platonic thought, and respond to it as such makes true discussion impossible, it is a response to an impression from the writing, not what is actually written.

I am impressed so far in this discussion with the continual search for agreement in both Jenna and Mr. Pond. They obviously enjoy the discovery of common ground, and the building up of that common ground until it becomes a beautiful place, a haven against disagreement. Agreements are lovely, and in this past discussion, Mr. Pond has gone to great lengths to attempt a reconciliation between Jenna and my definitions of art. He's decided that it is entirely a semantics disagreement, due in part to my Platonism I'm sure. But not being a Platonist, and not longing for agreement at the expense of my own ideals, I have to reject his efforts. If art is  merely communication, if every bit of banality and ugliness is on some level, art, then art itself has no inherent value, no meaning, and no purpose. It does nothing to raise up man, it is a non-definition. Jenna's inclusive concept of art is in complete opposition to my own, and, by being too inclusive, fails to give non-art communications an opportunity to shine in their own sphere. Defining a Taylor Swift song, or a "penny-dreadful" book as art instantly relegates it to the level of "bad art," while allowing it to be itself: a fun pop-song, or badly-written but enjoyable commercial fiction, gives it the opportunity to succeed on it's own level.

Jenna and Mr. Pond will have to forgive me for being less than determined to agree than they. I've never been particularly uncomfortable with disagreement - especially written out disagreements, that can be edited, read, reread, and continually developed. I am not disagreeing for the sake of disagreement, but in some sense, out of a sense of self-preservation: If I agree with Jenna's terminology, I am agreeing that my artistic vocation is meaningless and non-existent, for if everything anyone ever says, writes, or does falls under the umbrella of art, then the term "artist" is as meaningless and empty as the term "art." I can't accept that, and in an attempt to form an agreement, I doubt either of them want me to agree with that idea, though it comes naturally out of Jenna's definition.

It's nice having a break in the discussion, a chance to look back and re-collect my ideas, to bring out some background thoughts that have been collecting in my mind these past few weeks. I'm looking forward to picking up the discussion again next week, with mediocrity and the abundance of Kierkegaard quotes that go with that issue. No one discusses mediocrity like Kierkegaard, except maybe Christ. Maybe.