Freckles
Recently, in the middle of a conversation, a friend said to me, "Freckles don't mean anything about anything." O.K. Roger that. Move on from a completely inane observation about reality.
But, as with so many moments in life, that little statement resonated. Yep, sometimes it's the stupid things that are actually clever. Clever, stupid, it’s a fine line. Some of you will get the Spinal Tap reference right there...
"Sometimes you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right..." was scrawled on the back of a highway sign by an on-ramp heading east on I-70 back in 1979. I was hitchhiking from San Francisco to Memphis, and seeing a lyric from Scarlet Begonias in such a random spot made sense at the time. Still does...
Steph Curry once made 77 three pointers in a row in practice. Witnesses say he missed a couple but ended up sinking 94 out of a 100. Michael Jordan once scored 59 points shooting 21-27 from the field and dropping 17 out of 19 free throws. Grace and power. Transcending the game...
Snowboarding rapidly through trees is about my favorite thing in the world. NOTHING makes me more present than this dangerous velocity. My mind can't wander; I can't be thinking of anything else. In fact, I have come to realize that I can't be thinking of anything. The purity is the emptiness.
Making art is what I do. It is the thing in my life that pulls me forward, makes me want to practice, makes the exploration exciting, makes all the crazy stuff I see and do and hear and read smash into my head to lodge as raw material. For years I have spent countless hours scratching the surface of metal to make light dance. And when the process of doing this becomes automatic, it's perfect. When I'm lucky, I find a "flow state" that is nothing short of magical -- I'm no longer making the piece. It's making itself and I'm just in the room moving my hands around. Making patterns with loud tools and tight lines and matte and gleaming and mysterious stuff that sometimes later I wonder where it came from or how that stuff manages to look so... well, you know...
Sonny Rollins, one of the titans of saxophone recently wrote in the New York Times:
"The spirit of art shines through in a performance when I stop thinking — when I let the music play itself, not just the one song that I’ve memorized, but all of the songs and experiences I have in my mind. And as things come to me, unplanned, I surprise even myself."
When Pat Metheny or John Meyer is soloing, you can see the look of complete detachment on their faces. They are not thinking of notes -- the suspended 7th in the arpeggio... They are thinking music and sound comes out. The analytic brain is gone. They are dancing through trees, dropping through space in deep fluff, playing with gravity, surfing, glissando, sparkling, lost in the moment, in flow... This is where the art lives. This is knowing your instrument to the point that it disappears. Notes, tools are instinctually chosen. I don't know what this is going to be when it's done. Not even sure I'll know when it's done.
At the very end of the Pirate show that I was watching, Captain Jack Rackham says,
"It's the art that leaves the mark, But to leave it, it must transcend. It must speak for itself. It must be true."
Freckles are the remnants of experience. Sun, bright, doing damage, signs of time passing, leaving a little mark.
Don't mean anything about anything. Unless they do.
Bruce Mac
P.S. Thanks for the brief stint of attention. Now buy art. It's more important than you know. It's the mark I leave in the universe. These are the freckles. Give them a good home.
