Every day since Aug. 1, 2020, I have made sure that something has been posted on this blog. This is the 1,055th consecutive day. Sometimes I’ve dipped into the archives and reprinted something I thought was worth repeating, but there’s always been something to read today that is different than what was here yesterday.
This is it, the day that doesn’t happen. The streak is over.
Except it isn’t.
Because I made that commitment nearly three years ago to put SOMETHING up every day.
I encountered two opposite but complementary views about the nature of art this week.
One perspective was posted on Facebook and came from Joyce Carol Oates: “My belief is that art should not be comforting; for comfort, we have mass entertainment and each other. Art should provoke, disturb, arouse our emotions, expand our sympathies in directions we may not anticipate and may not even wish.”
The other was from legendary director Akira Kurosawa: “I want to make movies, beautiful movies. I’ve pursued that goal for more than 50 years, close to 60 years now. But I don’t think I’ve yet fully grasped what a movie is … I would like everyone to savor the beauty of cinema.”
The quote is in a documentary attached to Kurosawa’s classic film Ikiru, about a boring man who discovers he is dying of cancer and commits to spending his last days not being boring. I watched the film again and was comforted by the beautiful, iconic shot of the man, played by Takashi Shimura, riding a swing in the rain while singing a sad old folk song. The image is comforting and provoking at the same time.
Kurosawa may not have fully grasped what a movie is, but he made some of the most beautiful films in cinematic history. And I probably would never have exposed myself to his work had I not been intrigued by the image of Shimura — whom I knew from his work as Dr. Yamane in my childhood favorite Godzilla — in another role. So mass entertainment does play a role in this mix.
You say you want a revolution? Well, you know, I’d love to change the world, but I don’t know what to do.
The butter wouldn’t melt, so I put it in a pie. She was just 17; you know what I mean/
In my most secure moments, I still can’t believe I’m spending those moments with you. Your name and mine, inside a heart, upon a wall, still find a way to haunt me, though they’re so small.
The man from the magazine said I was on my way. I have squandered my resistance for a pocket full of mumbles. Such are promises: All lies and jests. Still, a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.
What am I doing hanging round? I should be riding on that train to San Antone, passing trains that have no name and the graveyards of the rusted automobiles, on down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico.
You do me wrong to cast me off discourteously — and I have loved you oh, so long, delighting in your company. You fill up my senses! It’s not just these few hours, but I’ve been waiting since I toddled for the great relief of having you to talk to.
And now, the end is near. They’re coming to take me away. Don’t they know it’s the end of the world? The sun ain’t gonna shine anymore, the moon ain’t gonna rise in the sky. And I feel fine.
