Oh, The Places You'll Go

The New York Times has a review of Nicholas Delbanco's new book, “Lastingness: The Art of Old Age,” that explores the question:

Why do some artists ... mature early and then run out of steam, producing only second-rank work in their last decades, while others gain momentum and occasionally even peak in old age?

Even as a child of 7, I understood that old age would reveal wondrous secrets held back from youth. It was mostly the effortless way my grandparents or other older people could connect the dots between things in the world around us. "It's going to be a fast, violent thunderstorm. You can tell by the way the wind is turning the leaves on the trees." Such simple revelations seemed like pure magic to me as a kid, as if the curtain cloaking all the mysteries of the universe was momentarily pulled back for me.

Upon first understanding this, I wanted to know all such things myself. But somehow I knew it took time...decades...possibly several of them...before one could master such magic. Not that I didn't try to accelerate the process. I practiced acting like my grandfather as a child and (now I realize) well into my early adulthood. From mimicking the groaning noises he made when he rose from a chair when I was 7 to dressing in pastel cardigans and vintage sharkskin jackets while in college, I was emulating him, because I couldn't wait to be like him...to be myself the keeper of such marvelous secrets.

OK, so thanks for humoring my trip down memory lane, but the question Delbanco's book reportedly raises is why some artists seem to tap into rich veins as they mature and others do not. Perhaps it hinges on whether an artist finds their way to what Delbanco sees as the dividing realization. From the NYTimes review by Brooke Allen:

In youth, [Delbanco] posits, “it’s the reception of the piece and not its production that counts. But to the aging writer, painter or musician the process can signify more than result; it no longer seems as important that the work be sold.” It is a profound observation; with time and age, the act of showing becomes increasingly subordinate to the act of making, and gratification turns ever further inward.

This follows nicely from yesterday's post on The Woodmans, in which we see Betty and George Woodman speak about the overriding importance of being in their studios, making their work, as opposed to their daughter Francesca who seemed to become depressed that there weren't more opportunities to show her work and receive the acclaim she felt she had earned.

I have noticed among some of the artists I know what is best perhaps termed a "clarity" that came to them later in life. This clarity is something they are positively delighted about, both in how it is reflected in their work and how it guides them in their practice. In Allen's review of the book, a wonderful metaphor for this is provided, via Yeats:

The question of “old-age art” is mysterious and perennially fascinating. Creative artists who continue to work late in life so often seem to undergo a sea change: a distillation, a new intensity, a sloughing off of excess and ornament in favor of deep essentials. W. B. Yeats, himself a notable example of the phenomenon, provided an image for it: “Though leaves are many, the root is one; / Through all the lying days of my youth / I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun; / Now I may wither into the truth.”

Of course, there do exist prodigies or simply smart young people among us, and what they see should not to be minimized. I'm not at all in the camp of people who feel artists have to be old to be important. I do think, though, that those who peak early should consider turning ever more toward their practice rather than seeking more and more attention, if they wish to remain important.