In high school — well, in 9th and 10th grade, at least — my favorite days were Wednesdays. Every Wednesday, we’d follow an accelerated schedule which shaved about ten or so minutes off of each class period. Though I admit that the fact that this meant ten or so less minutes of Algebra and Trigonometry was a definite plus, that wasn’t the reason I loved Wednesdays. Instead, I loved them because all of those ten or so minutes added up to an extra period during which we got to take classes in another art. I relished these glimpses into other art forms — in my case, music and theater — both because I learned to more deeply appreciate and respect the other arts and because these arts informed my own. I was perhaps most obviously inspired by my theatre classes, as they led to my love of play writing, but my music classes also inspired and informed my writing. Through the study of symphonies and musical movements, I learned about the overall structure of a poem or an essay; through the study of musical tones, I learned how to hear patterns and tones in poetic language.
After ninth and tenth grade, however, Wonderful Wednesday vanished, the reasoning being, I think, that in taking these classes, we were distracted from our art. And though it was still an immeasurable privilege to have three hours a day for studying our fine arts, the division between the arts grew more and more distinct, as we focused intensely on our art and squelched any interest in another. It seemed as if we were meant to be pegs carved to fit in only one kind of hole: if you were a writer, you couldn’t audition for a play, as that was solely for the theatre students, or sing in the choir, as the choir was made only up of music students, or even take A.P. Biology, as that class was only offered to Math/Science majors. This kind of pigeon-holing often led to burn-out, and seemed sometimes to divide the school in terms of departments. We did share our work with other departments, but only the finished products: plays, concerts, readings, exhibits, results from experiments, and ballet performances. What we didn’t share was the process, the moment of discovery, of realization that, yes, you’ve finally come across something striking and strange, a new way of seeing the world — in other words, the real, raw experience of art and of science that can only come with experience of its making.
Of course, there was a point to it all, and there is very real value in teaching this kind of determination and strict devotion to one’s art — in the real world of rejection and nepotism and Good Ol’Boy networks, it seems absolutely crucial to develop some kind of single-minded concentration on one’s art, on the importance of creation over instant gratification.
At the same time, I wonder sometimes what I missed, and what connections I could’ve made — and, more importantly, what we could’ve done, what great potential and power for change there might’ve been if we, as future artists and scientists and scholars and citizens, had more deeply connected with another art and seen the connections between them, seen the struggles and the triumphs we all shared.
I’m aware that the above passage contains a number of Very Controversial Statements, not the least of which being that creative writing is, in fact, an art, and not a.) a set of learned skills and craft techniques or b.) an academic discipline. It is not my intention to get into a discussion about this, which would inevitably end up in “M.F.A. versus No M.F.A.” territory, or “M.F.A. versus PhD” territory. The fight has been and is being fought by people far more qualified to fight it than I.
My intention is to be part of a different fight, and to say this: if we are going to survive as artists, as people engaged in the grueling and glorious task of creating Things, we’ll say, be they poems or paintings or performances, that inspire in their audience feelings of joy and sadness, of triumph and agony, of awe and reverence for the sheer impossible beauty of ever opening one’s eyes on this earth at all, we need to band together. Together, the arts can triumph. Divided, I fear we will fall.
Things at the School have changed drastically since I graduated what seems like an infinity of years ago, and that is a hopeful sign, and shows that, if nothing else, we — as makers and dreamers and craftsmen, as artists and scientists and citizens otherwise engaged in this great search for what connects us and inspires us and betters us and elevates us, for what makes us weep and laugh and shake our fists with frustration and all the while love all of it, because that’s what makes us human — we still have time.
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