Article
Museum as Muse: Clay
CLAY
News finds me years after of the death of a friend I had in Mexico once, a novelist from Kentucky, whose first stories were widely acclaimed but who ended up talking his talent away in a school he 'd set up for American kids in Guadalajara.
I came to love Mexico when I lived there, its prodigious history and culture; even now I keep a postcard on my desk of a pre-Columbian sculpture: two figures in terracotta; their text says, "Shaman and youth," but I fancy them bard and apprentice.
Apprentice was just what I'd been to my friend: older than I was, he'd read vastly and well, and wrote bracing letters of encouragement and advice. I'd really come that far to sit at his feet; when I arrived, though, everything changed.
He was struggling by then with the one book he'd publish, was spending more hours than he had to with his students than writing, and began turning on me, dismissing my work, contradicting me, constantly, savagely,
even belittling me in front of his pupils. I suppose I understand now what drove him: all artists know spells when the gates close, or what you do contrive is despoiled by impatience and haste, and you wouldn't mind
giving it up, walking away, as so many have, but it must have been cruel for him, who prided himself on his not small successes, to sense the time near when he'd realize, "I can't do this anymore," and wouldn't.
These inches-high statues of clay on their card ring back the pain of that time, and the shame, but they're heartening, too: for thirty-five centuries they've sat, cross-legged, too absorbed in their session to notice the flaking of their beautiful paint.
The poet's taller, with more heft; the neophyte smooth-muscled, slim: eyebrows raised, arms waving, he's recounting a vision, a first-draft, to keep the conceit; that innocent, tumbling abundance... His lips are closed, though, he's being rebuked,
not as my enemy-friend would have done it, but gently: the master's hand's on his shoulder, slowing him down; he's insisting they have to have order, these passions, and form. At the same time his free hand gestures ahead: Go on, he's saying, don't let any of anything get away.
He might be warning him too how hard it can be, hat willed hesitation, convincing yourself to stay in the fire, and wait, not knowing if the waiting will end, but staying there, being there, thinking, almost thinking, keeping yourself from thinking, I can't.
--C.K. Williams
News finds me years after of the death of a friend I had in Mexico once, a novelist from Kentucky, whose first stories were widely acclaimed but who ended up talking his talent away in a school he 'd set up for American kids in Guadalajara.
I came to love Mexico when I lived there, its prodigious history and culture; even now I keep a postcard on my desk of a pre-Columbian sculpture: two figures in terracotta; their text says, "Shaman and youth," but I fancy them bard and apprentice.
Apprentice was just what I'd been to my friend: older than I was, he'd read vastly and well, and wrote bracing letters of encouragement and advice. I'd really come that far to sit at his feet; when I arrived, though, everything changed.
He was struggling by then with the one book he'd publish, was spending more hours than he had to with his students than writing, and began turning on me, dismissing my work, contradicting me, constantly, savagely,
even belittling me in front of his pupils. I suppose I understand now what drove him: all artists know spells when the gates close, or what you do contrive is despoiled by impatience and haste, and you wouldn't mind
giving it up, walking away, as so many have, but it must have been cruel for him, who prided himself on his not small successes, to sense the time near when he'd realize, "I can't do this anymore," and wouldn't.
These inches-high statues of clay on their card ring back the pain of that time, and the shame, but they're heartening, too: for thirty-five centuries they've sat, cross-legged, too absorbed in their session to notice the flaking of their beautiful paint.
The poet's taller, with more heft; the neophyte smooth-muscled, slim: eyebrows raised, arms waving, he's recounting a vision, a first-draft, to keep the conceit; that innocent, tumbling abundance... His lips are closed, though, he's being rebuked,
not as my enemy-friend would have done it, but gently: the master's hand's on his shoulder, slowing him down; he's insisting they have to have order, these passions, and form. At the same time his free hand gestures ahead: Go on, he's saying, don't let any of anything get away.
He might be warning him too how hard it can be, hat willed hesitation, convincing yourself to stay in the fire, and wait, not knowing if the waiting will end, but staying there, being there, thinking, almost thinking, keeping yourself from thinking, I can't.
--C.K. Williams
