The woman who needs to create works of art is born with a kind of psychic tension in her which drives her unmercifully to find a way to balance, to make herself whole. Every human being has this need: in the artist it is mandatory. Unable to fulfill it, he goes mad. But when the artist is a woman she fulfills it at the expense of herself as a woman.
May Sarton (b. 1912), U.S. poet, novelist.
I have ordered May Sarton's Journal of a Solitude, having read of this book over at Christine's blog often as she has read through this same book.
Who can resist a woman who writes: What kept me going was, I think, that writing for me is a way of understanding what is happening to me, of thinking hard things out. I have never written a book that was not born out of a question I needed to answer for myself. Perhaps it is the need to remake order out of chaos over and over again. For art is order, but it is made out of the chaos of life.
May Sarton.
3 comments:
I read this book years ago, but didn't appreciate it much. Lately I've been re-reading it and it resonates. As for art being born out of chaos, that's absolutely true.
P.S. My netbook arrived! Now to get it set up.
See, I was thinking that, at least as regards a poem, art is much like unraveling something to understand it then 'raveling' it back up again. It's just a constant interplay of chaos and order.
I think I noted those particular quotes because I was curious ... I mean, I have the chaos, that's a constant in my life but the art doesn't emerge from the chaos, it only comes when I have times of quiet. I lose myself in photography but to write, I need be alone, without dishes and washing and cooking and people. It's finding a balance somehow and I love that May has written a book about the attempt at balance.
Have fun with the netbook, Tara. I'm delighted with my little travel laptop, as is Gert.
Maybe, Barbara. Okay, she writes thinking, so if I consider it, my photography sessions often appear to be chaos in the moment. I prefer to exist on the edge or the fringe of the family or the event ... and out of that apparent chaos come the soul or a shape that is order ...somehow. I've never understood how it works, I just know enough to let it be.
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