Definitions

What is art? A fundamental question which had been revivified for me thanks to a new creative writing workshop I’ve begun through ASU. Man, I haven’t had that many dry erase fumes and uncomfortable chairs in quite some time. I always have the problem of my arms. They don’t want to be at my sides so they’re sloppily weighted over the desk or crossed in isolation across my chest and I don’t really want to be sloppy or isolating. However, I now remember my passion for doodling while taking notes that I had almost forgotten and that one must remember to turn one’s cell phone off before class. (Bad Kate, you do not get a gold star today.)

Such workshops always begin with the function of its own existence, hence the question: What is art? In general, in writing? Well, to me, art is something that is not purely functional, that provides something that is purposeless, an end result that exists wholly in the scope of the mind or the emotions, all while wooing the right intelligentsia to write the right reviews. This stems from the question of why all of us—retirees, closet novelists, journalists, and pink-toed NPR reps—have signed up to be in this classroom on a Monday night to sit in sloppy and isolating chairs. That question being “Can art be taught? Can you learn to write? Or, is it innate?” And as always, I must admit that my best answer is another question: Do we want to believe that writing is only a talent, something that one cannot graft onto someone, to bask in the arrogant assumption that we are those special, gifted individuals who have what others cannot? If so, why are we seeking out a community college course that deals with writing if, theoretically, we will walk away have gained nothing?

I’ve asked these questions before and debated them with much more vigor that I did last night. You see, in my mind, where nothing is black or white but where zebras roam freely over the savannas of unconscious thought, some in pink tutus, I don’t need an answer anymore. Art is subjective. Writing is subjective. I read books that I like. I read books that I know I am supposed to like. I secretly read books I know I am supposed to loathe. I only know that writing is something I like to do and something that I dream about and pray for and pull the wishbones of turkeys with hope that I am good at it. And hopefully I will be able to gauge how successful I am at that goodness when I turn in a story next week to receive the group’s judgment about whether my work is merely functional or Art, with a big capital A.

But hey, I can always appeal the verdict.