BREAKING
A few weeks ago I had the fortunate pleasure of seeing author Ross Gay read from his newest book,
The Book of More Delights. It was everything you might imagine it to be; inspiring, brilliant, funny, tender and completely Ross. He’s a genius. His work bears such a soft and tender curiosity. A thoroughness and gentle unearthing of the human condition met with a sad and sweet reminder that everything we love and hold so dearly in this world is 100% completely temporary. There is a large space between these things and Ross manages to hold them all. A wilderness, I think. Yet he somehow distills from this wilderness a single extraordinary idea that runs through his work - joy is the result of shared sorrow. Brilliant. And I think he’s right.
It is a true gift to witness someone you know and think the world of be recognized for being extraordinary at who they are. To hear people share how moved they are by his work. How it changed their lives in some way. It made me overjoyed for Ross be seen in this way and his words be felt so deeply. He is loved so freely by his readers and this made me very, very happy.
Ross was asked a few times about his writing process. How he goes about it, what it feels like, how much time it takes. The kind of questions that artists themselves don’t often think about. A process is a process I suppose. But I imagine as a professor and a seasoned author, he has gotten used to putting his process into tidy piles or columns in order to not only answer these questions but to communicate his process in a way that those who hold the creative process as something outside themselves might understand. If the creative process seems like magic, that’s because it is, but it is also the accumulation of minutes, hours, and years of just getting in there and allowing for the process and also fighting for the process over and over and over again. A well studied, informed, and scientific kind of magic. Ross gave the usual answers that one might give, about finding the story, a kind of sketching with words that sooner or later reveal a smooth and skilled meaning. A holding of things around a singular idea or situation. A coming together or sorts. This all made sense and sounded familiar in what I know and understand my own creative process to be.
And then he really surprised me.
“I’m trying to break it,” he said.
What seems like a pulling together or a holding is actually the result of Ross’s own intention of breaking apart everything he creates.
I cannot stop thinking about this.
What if instead of building, gathering, connecting, and bridging, in our process, we broke everything apart first? It kind of changes everything, right?
Breaking apart destroys perfection. It shifts the whole purpose of refinement and what it means to finish something. What it means to create. The closest thing I could equate this action of breaking apart was the need I have in my own creative process to leave things just a little bit under done, under worked. I like the space that is created when an idea, an artwork, is left with just a little bit of room, a corner that the artist has not inhabited. An invitation for another idea, or a rawness. A space that is not refined or skilled, or flavored with the intention of the hand that guided it. Everything I’ve ever created has left this space, be it sometimes small, for something else entirely to grow, inhabit, or even take over. And I suppose this has been my own way of breaking things apart to reach an essence, a center, the very bottom of an idea. The heart of something.
The act of breaking apart creates freedom. I am reminded of the mess and chaos of the earliest days of the pandemic. When life was very uncertain. Two weeks turned into months, then longer. The day to day we came to expect was shattered. An invitation. But not everyone saw it as such. If everything is broken, then we have the freedom to decide what’s worth putting back together. Such a dichotomy. The invitation of freedom through complete and utter loss of control. That small space left open to grow, inhabit, or take over. Which will it be?
Ross tends to do this in his work. In order to connect, he illuminates how we are broken apart. That joy might break to connect us through sorrow. And this breaking lies next to but is distinctly different from the organic unfolding that his words allow. Two different motions really.
The first loud and crashing. The breaking. A collision. The second, the careful sifting of pieces, carefully and mindfully placing pieces back together. The unfolding. Slowly, intentionally. One after another. Filling the spaces with gold.
As my husband and I said goodbye to Ross, (I wanted two hugs) Ross asked how my work was going. The last time we spoke I was preparing for a fine art show, exploring my own ideas of joy with my podcast, Joy is Now, and he and I were writing back and forth about basketball, psychoanalyst Tom Ogden and REM - the early years. Mostly I was questioning what was next. He has just finished Be Holding (read that too, Ross manages to write an entire book around a single spectacular moment in sports) and was telling me about the seasonal terrain of his community garden.
“I’m working on fiction,” I blurted out. “I’ve never done it before. It’s weird, right? Fiction is weird.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But it seems like that’s next. Let me know how it’s going, would you?”
I’m breaking it apart, Ross.
That’s how it’s going.
xxx
LAS