Poetic Sensibility

31- Art And Artists

So finally there is something happening on the Romi-Samay front. Yay! I don't exactly know what it is so I leave it up to you to decide! Again, Romi's essay which is read out by Samay has been italicized. Happy reading!

        Romi had just finished arranging her books and returning them to their respective shelves when the doorbell rang. She knew it was Samay. He had promised he would return the next day to read further on the Plato and Aristotle debate. And here he was, she mused. She wondered whether the write up had kept him awake, like she had been when she had first read the argument. That's of no consequence, she immediately told herself. It is essential that he understands the debate. No more, no less. 

        He took his usual seat at the cast iron table as Romi took a moment to look at him. He wore one of his usual semi-formal shirt and his legs were encased in dark denims. She had quickly learned that he was fidgety and making him wait meant baiting his temper. While she had yet to see him lose his cool, she didn't think today was the day to test that. She had already placed her notebook on the table, the page he had to read already dog-eared. As she took her seat opposite him, he flipped open the notebook and began reading. She smiled when he started reading out loud. At least she had managed to teach him that.

"Aristotle's reply surprised me more than Plato's take on poetry itself. Aristotle, first and foremost, agrees with Plato that poetry is an imitation. He says it's 'mimetic' in nature. For a moment, I decided that my heart could not take it. Two figures that I looked up to had denounced poetry. Where was I to turn? But, reading on, I realized that what Aristotle was saying did not amount to any form of denunciation. Poetry, he believed, does not come with a moral or a philosophical compass. It is simply an art. It's not for preaching and definitely not for teaching.

Plato, on one hand, claims that reality is a pale imitation of an idea. Sure, reality gives the idea some concreteness, but it is always going to be inferior. Therefore, art, which is an imitation of life, will always be twice removed from that idea. Aristotle, I believe had other ideas. To begin with, he disagrees that art is twice removed from the ideal. Art, he says, is not an imitation of the life we live. It is a recreation of certain events or elements in life that hold more meaning than the others. Art, he says, covers the essence. The rest is all dross. I find myself immeasurably drawn to this kind of thinking and can't help but wonder if this is how an ideal man is to think- in terms of essence and dross. This, he says, makes art much, much greater than the idea.

Plato denounces art because it doesn't teach. Aristotle says it's not supposed to. The job of a piece of art is not to preach, but to help you assert. Either you allow yourself to be guided by the moral compass without having a say in your actions or you allow yourself to have an opinion. Art allows perception, he says. Art shows you the reality of the artist. I don't know if I agree with this but I find it hard to not ponder over it. Some times, I believe that what I write or do is trying to hide my true self. And at other times, I believe it is trying to emphasize it. What is this constant war that goes on between an artist and his art? Will there ever be a victor? Wouldn't losing this battle be more beneficial for the artist, I wonder.

This, however, is not where Aristotle ends his argument. He closes it by calling art sublime. Sublimity, I believe, is a potent mix of the abstract and the glorious. Giving this status to art is as good as it gets. When one feels, simply feels something, after examining something artistic, it purges one of any under-riding emotion, thus allowing one to feel sublime. He discusses this aspect of art further in his "Theory of Catharsis", which I admit, I am yet to examine in detail. For now, I do think this is enough to keep me thinking about how I allow art to make me and how I allow me to make art."

Samay closed the book and looked at Romi, "When I first heard about the sessions you were going to conduct from Sarah, I told her it is impossible for someone to teach poetry. Turns out you agree with me."

        Romi felt something funny inside. Why was it that when she believed Samay would behave in a particular way or say something very specific, he found a way to skirt around it? Was she wrong about him? She had been drawn to him from the very minute she had first spoken to him, of that there was no doubt, but for once, in her life, Romi wanted to ask herself the question "Why?" And for the longest time, Romi had believed that question to be nothing but dross.

"That's right," she finally replied. "Poetry cannot be taught. It is not meant for teaching. It is to understand yourself."

"Is that why you hold out more for poetry than for stories?" he asked her.

        Romi stood up from the table and walked towards the kitchen counter. She was not used to being examined so closely and it unnerved her. Especially when he was the one doing it. What was it about him in particular that made her feel this way? She knew she had to answer his question. He wasn't going to let it rest. When it came to that aspect of his nature, he was very much like her.

"A story," she began, "Is how an author wants to say it. He projects an image, leaving very little to the imagination. When it comes to a poem, there are many projections. You have a projection of your own and I have one of mine and then the poet himself, will have another. A poem has no ceiling. That would be why I believe more in poetry than I do in stories."

        She could see Samay trying to take this information and let it sink in. He looked slightly gobsmacked and she was tempted to ask what he was thinking. But that would be inessential, wouldn't it? She wasn't about to reject her philosophy of life to find out what someone she probably liked more than she was supposed to, was thinking. Where the hell did that come from, she wondered.

"Ah well," he began to stand up. "Thanks for letting me read this. I sensed you were reluctant but you let me read it anyway." He looked as if he meant it.

Suddenly, Romi decided, it wasn't his gratitude she wanted. Before she could stop herself, she heard herself say, "Wait. Don't go just yet."