Guest Blogger: Superman
Most of you know me as Superman. This name is kind of a running gag, though the gag has by now almost certainly run away. So before I begin, and in the interests of full disclosure, let me assure you all that I am not actually Superman. The reason this is necessary is that the lovely Dale has asked me to write about superpowers.
Exceedingly mild superpowers, no less.
I find myself struggling with this theme, feeling somewhat ill equipped for the task, because I suspect that to do this well what I really need is the perspective of an artist. Thus, I find myself wanting to bow out, to recede once more into the shadows. However, Dale has given me The Words for the day, and as she so readily points out, Dale is the Captain of The Words. I am left with no other option but to write.
So I walk – with my artist’s pullover warming my chest in the slightly awkward fashion of borrowed clothing – and I take it all in. Attempting to find something to SAY, not simply say. I sit on a park bench and watch – just observing the little things, the taken for granted but essentially human things. And there I sat, deep in contemplation, until the mother of two children frolicking nearby began to regard me with what looked like suspicion - at which point I beat a clumsy retreat.
The problem is that every mild super power I can think of turns out to be a major super power, and vice versa. It all depends on the perspective. Just look at me: I’m Superman, bullets ricochet off my chest without ever leaving a mark. But back on Krypton, I would have been just another kid. Imagine if I tried to tell my buddy Excellentman that I had superpowers… he would have swung me about like an Olympic hammer thrower wearing neon latex, unable to contain his disdainful guffaws.
Dale suggested to me that her impressive ability to throw a crumpled up piece of paper successfully into the bin EVERY time should properly be regarded as a mild super power. Try telling that to an amputee. Or a dolphin. Or a professional basketballer.
Let’s bring this back to art and artists. I am beginning to believe that artists are born and not made. I am trying hard not to believe this, but it isn’t really working. To me, the kind of creativity displayed by the genuine artist is a full-blown super power, possibly the only kind that really matters.
Creative gifts have a certain cultural currency in our world – thus, there are a great many pretenders. It is rare to encounter an artist with honest edge. And even rarer to find one that has had much in the way of recognition. I am sure that Dale will remember a discussion I had with her about scenesters – the scenesters are the pretenders. This is a mockery of what art can and should be. Image shouldn’t really matter – that is ridiculous ‘postmodern’ self-justification, premised on a solid foundation of crippling insecurity. The best of the scenester artists manage to build themselves a loyal entourage – they must, as their ability to self justify depends upon it. The entourage is the reason that they produce at all.
What really matters is what the artist is trying to convey. And why.
I speak of the genuine voice. Of having something to say that should be heard.
And it is now that I speak of superpowers.
Most of you know me as Superman. This name is kind of a running gag, though the gag has by now almost certainly run away. So before I begin, and in the interests of full disclosure, let me assure you all that I am not actually Superman. The reason this is necessary is that the lovely Dale has asked me to write about superpowers.
Exceedingly mild superpowers, no less.
I find myself struggling with this theme, feeling somewhat ill equipped for the task, because I suspect that to do this well what I really need is the perspective of an artist. Thus, I find myself wanting to bow out, to recede once more into the shadows. However, Dale has given me The Words for the day, and as she so readily points out, Dale is the Captain of The Words. I am left with no other option but to write.
So I walk – with my artist’s pullover warming my chest in the slightly awkward fashion of borrowed clothing – and I take it all in. Attempting to find something to SAY, not simply say. I sit on a park bench and watch – just observing the little things, the taken for granted but essentially human things. And there I sat, deep in contemplation, until the mother of two children frolicking nearby began to regard me with what looked like suspicion - at which point I beat a clumsy retreat.
The problem is that every mild super power I can think of turns out to be a major super power, and vice versa. It all depends on the perspective. Just look at me: I’m Superman, bullets ricochet off my chest without ever leaving a mark. But back on Krypton, I would have been just another kid. Imagine if I tried to tell my buddy Excellentman that I had superpowers… he would have swung me about like an Olympic hammer thrower wearing neon latex, unable to contain his disdainful guffaws.
Dale suggested to me that her impressive ability to throw a crumpled up piece of paper successfully into the bin EVERY time should properly be regarded as a mild super power. Try telling that to an amputee. Or a dolphin. Or a professional basketballer.
Let’s bring this back to art and artists. I am beginning to believe that artists are born and not made. I am trying hard not to believe this, but it isn’t really working. To me, the kind of creativity displayed by the genuine artist is a full-blown super power, possibly the only kind that really matters.
Creative gifts have a certain cultural currency in our world – thus, there are a great many pretenders. It is rare to encounter an artist with honest edge. And even rarer to find one that has had much in the way of recognition. I am sure that Dale will remember a discussion I had with her about scenesters – the scenesters are the pretenders. This is a mockery of what art can and should be. Image shouldn’t really matter – that is ridiculous ‘postmodern’ self-justification, premised on a solid foundation of crippling insecurity. The best of the scenester artists manage to build themselves a loyal entourage – they must, as their ability to self justify depends upon it. The entourage is the reason that they produce at all.
What really matters is what the artist is trying to convey. And why.
I speak of the genuine voice. Of having something to say that should be heard.
And it is now that I speak of superpowers.
Comments