Confessions of a Starving Artist

Without delving into the email itself, I’ll rather start with the blunt end of considerations.  Granted, as is my currently socio-political mindset, I’ve often ranted, both here and in person, that the content that fills this country is a vast mockery of its former spirit; be it within the media, the political system, our own sad pop-culture icons, or worst of all, our artistic and intellectual world.  True, another neglected focus would be our corporate CEOs and their relentless and cut-throat ambitions (something we also lack lately), but I’ll deal with them at a later day…

The arts, or better said, our artists… where exactly are they?  I’ve considered this point before in terms of writers.  For example, whom would the average American consider to be the great American writer of our time?  Stephen King?  Prolific yes, but great?  Hardly.  Some of the more educated may be able to acknowledge Toni Morrison, Cormac McCarthy, or Maya Angelou, but even still; where is their place in our society?  Truly, most of their works don’t even take place in a contemporary setting.  There was a time in American history when our writers were listened to by statesmen, because they saw America for what it was, what it wasn’t, and what it could be, both in a macro and mirco context.  It was writers who had the understanding of the people, and their works captured the aspects, nay, the very essence of American existence as it happened to pass just in front of our faces.  Our generations writers, even the good ones, do not concern themselves with this… not in the aspects that Emerson could deliver from The Walden or Samuel Clemons could bring to you from the mighty Mississippi; Hawthorne from the Custom House or Steinbeck from Cannery Row.  Our authors are fascinated with entertainment, because entertainment is a paycheck.

The same goes for the rest of our artists.  Where are the Norman Rockwells or Andy Warhols?  I’d be shocked if one in a hundred people you meet on the street even know a single contemporary painter or poet.  …but then again, there is still that one person that does know and does exist.  Maybe not in a hundred, maybe not even five hundred, but they exist.  The conscious eyes of a nation can’t sleep entirely.  I meet them from time to time, and these rare and insightful people give me hope.  Perhaps soon there will be enough of us lying dormant, surrounded by the vapid crowds, wondering if we are the only ones who see the expanse.  Slowly we are finding each other.

I think that this whole business went off track during the seventies.  Can’t be sure, and I will freely admit at this point that the following is full conjecture seeing how I wasn’t born yet.  Artists are traditionally liberal, though during that time, I doubt quiet fondly that it carried quiet the black-and-white social stigma that it does now in the late first decade of the 21^st Century.  Nevertheless, the countless concurrent cultural revolutions of this country during that time inevitably led to a greater divide between those of a more traditional (conservative) and those of the revolutionary school of thought (liberal).  What I think was the downfall of the American artist’s creditability was the drugs.  Within artistic circles, what may have been looked upon as creative and expansive could now easily become disregarded by critics as a product of an immoral lifestyle.  Like all stereotypes, it was rooted in some degree of truth as nearly all American artists of the sixties and seventies can be labeled drug users at best, abusers at worst.  Hardly leaves the position of the statesmen capable of conversation with an artist / known drug offender / criminal.  At least, not publicly.

Nowadays, it has become almost a clichéd hallmark of immerging artists of all walks and mediums to be open, expressive, and experimental with regards to nearly all things, drugs include.  This was certainly not always the case, and thankfully the perception as well as truth of this matter is shifting back… though perhaps a bit too slowly.  As our past generations die out and give way to the new, the old ways are lost or not believe save by those who study them; it then becomes the responsibility of the current parties involved to enact change should they be beleaguered to do so – a substantially harder task.

The cornered placement of the American artist is partly because the conservative Right wing has turned into near fascists, leaving no room for artistic liberties or opinions to re-enter the forefront of serious political or social consideration.  However, another important point is that the liberal Left has also not done a terribly strong job placing representatives of any caliber in positions from which they may become examples.

America ’s fascination with movie stars is deplorable.  Not because they of whom they are (American has always been in love with the silver screen and it’s celebrities for as long as Hollywood as stood as the capital of the film industry; nothing un-American about idolizing a movie star…) but because they create a maddeningly staunch umbrella over a public who has become convinced that this is the mind and political savy of an artist – any artist.  I will concede that an actor is an artist, but their’s a beauty pageant nine times out of ten.  You would never have thought to put Audrey Hepburn or Diane Keaton in the same room with Carl Sandburg or Alan Ginsberg… so why American’s assumption that they are suddenly the same now, void of all societal awareness?

The point is that there is a void, a rather substantial one.  No one is chronicling our collective decent into madness, no one is pointing out our absurdities, our follies, or our glories in a manner that is both entertaining and subtle to the masses.  Instead we are told what to think by political pundits and entertained by over-glamorized special effects in the latest Bruckheimer flick.

But we’re changing.  The societal stage is set with near-imperialist military action, a defunct and unpopular government, but most importantly, three full generations of mindless masses completely unswayed by either propaganda or philosophy.  The only thing that we know as a country of identity comes from several decades ago.  We are defined by the dye in our hair, the music in our IPod, the pop-culture quotations from the latest Will Farrell movie, and the jeans on our ass.  We are ripe for influence and inspiration… or implosion.

With the white noise becoming so hauntingly monotone over the past twenty years, a single individual’s words, if spoken correctly, can once again be heard by a nation if by nothing more than pure originality of sound.   Regardless the subject of critics’ likes and dislikes, the boon of being one of expression in the first place; it still is the point of view that is missing and what is important.  With a sort of unrelatable radar, active intellectuals are starting to see each other again and ban together; not for money or fame or some audience (leave that to the Californians), but rather for the simple thirst for intellect, for self-betterment, and academia.  In short - art for art’s sake.

I am not sure in what fashion this will come, but it needs to come.  Whether it will take the form of an American Renaissance or some sort of American Bohemia, I cannot be sure.  But sane artists are starting to return, those of us with a credibility that comes from not giving into the establishment, proving that you do not have to drink what they are selling, proving that the artist is the last remaining person in America with integrity, which may come our new hallmark.  …and least I hope so.

Without the epitaphs of society there is no society; it becomes awash in the sands of time.  Without the statues and coliseums, Rome seems but a mob of conquers akin to the Gauls or Huns; without the Temples and the Pyramids we won’t even know who the Egyptian Pharaohs were; and without the painters and architects, modern Christian religion would look like a pack of unaccomplishing hypocrites.  As a whole, we do not yet see our spiral… and least, not all of us.

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance.  In Switzerland , they had brotherly love; they had five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce?  The cuckoo clock.  ~ Orson Wells

Nonetheless, during these times there are subtle overseas traditions that seem to be followed by most units provided they have the operational freedom to do so.  Painting your regiment or unit crest everywhere that is feasible and visible to the common passer-by is a typical one.  Getting tee-shirts designed is another.  However, none is more energetic, frustrating, and omni-present as finding and maintaining a team mascot; typically manifested in effort as raising a local stray puppy.

In Korea , this wasn’t the case… not completely.  The company dog was already established: a horrible, mean little creature named Rat whom had loitered around the barracks for as long as any current Soldier or Officer could remember.  Rat looked like a cross between a chinchilla and, well, a rodent with a deep jutting snaggletooth from where he was kicked in the jaw as a young stray.  His grey hair was constantly unkempt and long, and due to his raw youth and distrust for humans in general, only a few in the company where privileged enough to touch him, let allow pet or brush him.  Still Rat was good for one thing – anytime a Korean came inside the company area, Rat would explode into a rage of snarls and a whirling dervish of frenzied claws and muzzle snaps.  Rat was a fitting mascot.

In Iraq , we were without a camp dog for the first few months due to intense operations consuming the majority of our time.  Until one day, as luck would have it, a stray bitch wandered into under one of our vehicles to give birth to a litter of puppies.  Though only two survived the first week, one was gladly assimilated into our fold as the mother seemed content to come and go as she pleased.  The young pup was named Comsec as he chose to sleep in the communications closet of the company more often than not.  Unfortunately, when Comsec was only a few months old, he made the fatal decision to urinate on the Battalion’s Medical Station floor.  In what can only be noted as a rash reaction, the Medical Officer placed the young dog into a shoe box, removed him outside of the gate, and shot him with his pistol, later claiming that he would have done it regardless because the dog was a health hazard to the encampment.  At the bequest of myself and several other younger Officers whom had grown attached to the young dog (and also saw it as a terrible example for a battle-worn company), the Battalion Commander reprimanded the Medical Officer, but also forbade any further inclusion of dogs into the outposts.  Such was the tenuous state of ar-Ramadi…

Afghanistan brought with it a new unit, a new deployment, and of course, a new puppy.  Our detachment set about to finding a mascot nearly as soon as it hit the ground, and found it in the form of a fragile, near-death, snow-white puppy who was aptly named Cracker.  When he first came to us, Cracker was so thin that his tail was scarcely any larger than my pinky yet his playful actions had a seemingly human character about them.  As he grew, Cracker became more and more like a member of our team, rising almost above the level of mascot into that of a camp personality.  Soon everyone on the detachment knew Cracker’s likes and dislikes; not because everyone necessarily spent a great deal of time with the Afghan hound, but because Cracker had a way of making his thoughts very plain to you.  When it came time for the detachment to relocate to another area of Afghanistan , there was not a single team member who even considered leaving Cracker behind.  Cracker developed friends at the new firebase with their several existing camp dogs, and even among them, it was clear that he was the personality of the pack. 

Sadly, one morning Cracker returned to the firebase in a state the would be his last.  The details of Crackers death are not sane enough to go into words, but it would hold to say that his death was unnecessary and unbecoming of a dog of his caliber.  I may go so far as to say he was the best dog that I have ever had the pleasure of living in proximity of.

While this happened nearly a month ago, I think of this now as we prepare to return to the United States likely because while our team is returning unscathed from combat, it feels as though we have lost one of our own.  It is strange, but the men still talk of Cracker from time to time around the fire or over dinner.  A small memorial was even made and hung in the team room with his collar.

It’s unfortunate that things end this way, especially in a country such as Afghanistan .  Still, I find solace in the return flight home and the acknowledgement that sometime what happens in a place in time must stay in a place in time.

R.I.P Cracker 
September 2007 – April 2008