Award

Last week an arts organization gave me an award for my writing. I'm pretty excited about it, because I don't see myself as the kind of guy who wins awards. When I'm at an event and I'm supposed to be networking, I usually find myself out on the loading dock talking to the janitor or looking at pictures of the banquet server's grandchildren. But some really lovely people put in a lot of time and effort on my behalf and, you know, sometimes a miracle occurs. 

I have kind of an uncomfortable relationship with art organizations. A few years ago, I applied for a grant to help pay research expenses for a book. After I was turned down, the grant panel sent me a recording of them discussing my application. 

I'm not convinced that's a good idea. It's a little like asking a girl to the prom, and then not only does she turn you down, but she also sends a PowerPoint, complete with logo and theme music, giving all the reasons for the rejection. 

Anyway, one of the grant panelists reacted to my explanation of the purpose of the book by saying, “Pretty lofty goals. What does he want to do, change the world?” 

YES!  

Of course I want to change that world. That's what art is for, has always been for. Michelangelo whacked away at some marble for a few months and the city of Florence has felt better about itself for 500 years. Picasso did a painting depicting the aftermath of a fleet of bombers dropping bombs on the ancient city of Guernica and suddenly people who'd never thought about fascism needed to. Steinbeck talked about a road trip from Oklahoma to California and people were forced to think about the lost and the least and the true cost of cheap food. When he was twenty-two, John Prine wrote song about being old and alone and it certainly changed my world. 

Art is and always should be about changing the world, at least a little bit. 

It's not without some peril. A few decades ago, I was frustrated by the poetry of Wallace Stevens. I'd read somewhere that he was a major American poet and in my continuing effort to educate myself, I read some of his work, including poems like Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.  

I didn't get it. Didn't do anything for me at all, so I did a little research. Turns out he was a rich insurance company executive who thought having children was a big distraction from writing.  

So, right out of the gate he wasn’t exactly a kindred spirit. 

I didn't understand why someone would write something that had no real connection with their lives, so I called a writer I knew by the name of Bill Holm. Now, I wouldn't say Bill and I were buddies. He was a college professor, a true intellectual, with a fondness for classical music. I was none of those things, but he was always very generous with me, and he would answer the phone when I called. I told him of my struggles, and he said, “Forget Wallace Stevens. He's not your guy! John Clare, he's your guy!” 

I looked up John Clare. Turns out he was a British farm worker, the descendent of farm workers, who happened to have a gift for words and became kind of a favorite of the upper crust in England. He decided that making a living writing would be easier than baling hay and cleaning barns, and I bet he thought he was changing the world by giving the upper crust a window into the life he and people like him led. 

In the end John died, alone and broke, in an insane asylum 

So, there's that. 

But thank you for the award. Truly. 

Copyright 2024 Brent Olson