Palm Sunday_ An Autobiographical Collage - Kurt Vonnegut [62]
“In order to write the essay about Syd’s paintings, I had to ask him what he thought he was doing with paint. He was an abstract expressionist, you see. His paintings looked like bright weather to me—neon thunderstorms and the like.
“Was I ever in for a shock! Syd could not tell me what he thought he was doing!
“This did not wobble my opinions of Syd or his work. Syd and his paintings remained as honorable and beautiful as ever. What I lost faith in was the English language—by far the largest language in the world, incidentally. We have more words than anybody.
“But our great language, when confronted by abstract expressionism, was failing Syd and me—and every art critic I ever read.
“The language was speechless!
“Until that moment of truth, I had agreed with the Nobel-prize chemist, the late Irving Langmuir, who once said within my hearing, ’Any person who can’t explain his work to a fourteen-year-old is a charlatan.’
“I couldn’t believe that anymore.
“So what I finally wrote for Syd’s catalogue was your standard load of horse crap about modern art.
“It may be in your library here. Enjoy it in good health.
“But the puzzle has been on my mind ever since—and I have good news for you today. I can once again agree with Dr. Langmuir about charlatans. Here, in simple English, is what Syd Solomon does:
“He meditates. He connects his hand and paintbrush to the deeper, quieter, more mysterious parts of his mind—and he paints pictures of what he sees and feels down there.
“This accounts for the pleasurable shock of recognition we experience when we look at what he does.
“How nice!
“Hooray for Syd Solomon! I say. He is certainly more enterprising and useful than all the quack holy men who meditate deeply, who then announce smugly that it is impossible for them to express what they have seen and felt.
“The heck with inarticulate meditators! And three cheers for all artists who dare to show and tell.
“Since we are here to dedicate a library, let us especially applaud those artists we call writers. By golly, aren’t writers wonderful? They don’t just keep their meditations to themselves. They very commonly give themselves migraine headaches and ulcers, and destroy their livers and their marriages, too, doing their best to show and tell.
“I once learned how to be the other sort of meditator, the sort that doesn’t show and tell. I paid Maharishi Mahesh Yogi eighty dollars to show me how.
“Maharishi Mahesh Yogi gave me a mantra, a nonsense word I was supposed to say over and over to myself as I sank deeper and deeper into my mind. I promised not to tell anybody what my mantra was. This was it: Aye-eem.
“I will now demonstrate. [Going into a trance] Aye-eem, aye-eem, aye-eem….
[Emerging from the trance] “Where am I? Am I still fifty-four? Or am I eighty-six now? I wouldn’t be surprised.
“All right—that was the socially fruitless sort of meditation. I feel mildly refreshed, but I don’t see how that can be much use to anybody else in New London or anywhere.
“Now for the socially fruitful sort of meditation, which has filled this noble building here: When writers meditate, they don’t pick bland, meaningless mantras to say over and over to themselves. They pick mantras that are hot and prickly, full of the sizzle and jingle-jangle of life. They jazz the heck out of their inner beings with the mantras they pick.
“I will give you some examples:
“War and Peace.
“The Origin of Species.
“The Iliad.
“Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
“Critique of Pure Reason.
“Madame Bovary.
“Life on the Mississippi.
“Romeo and Juliet.
“The Red Badge of Courage.
“I only wish I had your card catalogue here. I could go on and on with literary mantras that have changed the world for the better.
“About The Red Badge of Courage, by the way: That story by Stephen Crane is supposed to be a particularly salutary story for Americans to read—especially during the bicentennial.