Looking down a long, lonely road

Struggling with the issue of feedback -- or lack of it -- has frozen most of my creative efforts over the past month.

The question I keep asking myself is "what's the point" if the work is just something for whom the principal audience is myself, my computer and the occasional viewer on ModelMayhem or deviantArt, the two principal sites where I post current work. Visions of the reclusive Emily Dickinson play through my mind's eye -- writing 1800 poems over the years yet publishing just a dozen in her lifetime. I wonder, did it matter to her that so few knew of her talent? Did she become paralyzed with self-doubt in the absence of acclaim? Or, did she write simply because it was in her soul to do so without regard to what others might think? And, what about the hundreds of others -- perhaps as talented as she -- whose work has never been discovered, never published, never known?

The quandary, of course, is analagous to the ancient "if a tree falls in the forest with no one to hear, does it make a sound?"

I don't think this is something I'm going to solve for myself in this post; but at least I need to look down the road again to try to regain some perspective. Less than a week ago, I was set to delete this blog, wipe out all the files on ModelMayhem and deviantArt and simply close the book on 15 years of photography. I'd even taken the batteries out of my camera with no desire for doing any additional work.

Then one person who had seen one image on deviantArt asked if he could see a few more in the series. I sent him the set via e-mail. What ensued has been remarkable. As a "thank you" he gave me an additional year's membership on deviantArt. And, perhaps more importantly, he started writing me e-mails about what he saw in the images and how powerful they were for him. The dialogue helped me look at the images in a totally different way -- and reminded me that an art object really isn't a static piece; but rather a reference point. Good art is an experience shared between the viewer and the object's creator.

And there's the rub. Is it enough that one other person sees the value?

Here comes the anecdote for this post.

I was the only person in my high school graduating class to go on to college. And, initially, even I didn't get very far -- a teacher's college in Greenville, North Carolina. East Carolina, while huge, didn't exactly have a sterling academic reputation. Most of the people who taught there felt and acted as if they had been put out to pasture. I remember one of my teachers looking at our English class saying "Ya'll aren't stupid, you're just pathetic." So much for positive reinforcement.

But there were exceptions.

I especially remember David Serrins, a superb musician who conducted the orchestra and was clearly on a different level than his colleagues. He brimmed over with joy for his music, was attentive to his students and always left the room lighter than when he entered. It was magical to be in his presence.

One day I finally got up the nerve to ask him the white-elephant-in-the-middle-of-the-room question, "Why are you here with this pack of losers, when you could be anywhere?"

He had been an oboe student studying under the legendary Marcel Tabuteau, arguably one of the greatest oboists of all time. During Serrins' senior year at the Curtis Institute, Arturo Toscanini was scheduled to guest conduct the Philadelphia Symphony with one of the featured works to be an oboe concerto. A week before the concert Tabuteau notified the symphony that he would be sending one of his star students to fill in for him for the first rehearsal as he had double booked. It would be great experience for his student to have the experience of working with Toscanini. And, of course, he would be there for all subsequent rehearsals and the performance.

The rehearsal began. Halfway through the first movement, Toscanini pounded the podium and screamed out "stop". Looking directly at Serrins, but addressing the entire orchestra, he said "We start again." The music resumed and Serrins redoubled his efforts assuming the worst. Again, at a different point in the music, Toscanini stopped the music. Staring at Serrins, he shouted "play again, play again." Everyone in the orchestra shuffled, there was visible embarassment and the piece was started all over. The third time Toscanini allowed the piece to play out. During the ensuing break, Serrins walked up to the maestro to apologize and explain that he was only filling in for Tabuteau.

Toscanini's response was "I have never heard so beautiful. I could not believe my ears. You will play at the concert -- not Tabuteau."

Serrins looked me in the eye as he finished his story and said, "Since that time, I've never felt I had to prove anything to anyone."

While I crave a wider audience, it's pretty clear I don't have it. So far the big commercial contracts -- even the little ones -- are, to say the least, elusive. And, unlike Serrins, I do feel as if I need to prove myself. But then there's this one person whose life was enriched because of a set of images I sent him; and, who in turn, has enriched my life.

Maybe I should put the batteries back in the camera.