Rambling

I watched a documentary last night about James Christensen, the LDS artist. I find his work engaging, but a little strange. Fantastic, in it's true definition, I think. But I also saw how much of an influence the European masters had on his work. Some of it is quite traditionally beautiful, which I like. I enjoyed the program (on BYUtv) because I got to see a lot of his work, as well as getting some commentary from the artist (and others) to explain the themes. Many of his pieces really touch me. My favorite is "The Widow's Mite," but there are many others I didn't realize I liked until I saw the show. (I recommend this program if you have time to watch it.)

The thing that touched me most about the show, though, was something Mr. Christensen said when he was talking about reading The Lord of the Rings in college. He said,

"I wept when I was finished because I could never read it for the first time again."

Wow. That's exactly how great literature should feel. I wonder if I ever felt this way. I do recall feeling sad as I finished books that I liked, because they were over. I think that may have been some of the same emotion, but I failed to recognize it in the same way. Alternatively, though, there is great joy in becoming familiar with a piece of literature, as well. There are books that are like old friends, books that I love to read them again and again, because they move me and comfort me and have a wonderful familiarity. In my mind, a relationship with books is like a romantic relationship. First there is a thrill of discovery and an excitement of something new. A lust, if you will, that fades as familiarity increases. But with that familiarity comes a comfort, a closeness that you can never have when the relationship is new. With my husband, sometimes I miss that thrill, that emotional flush of first falling in love, the tingling excitement of exploring untried intimacy. But I would never trade it for the solicitude, the mature passion, the depth of emotion that comes with a relationship that has had time to truly flower. There is a poem by Carol Lynn Pearson that speaks to this dichotomy.

Spring Is Only for Beginnings

Our love
Was a blossom,
Full and faultless
On the tree.
But when the petals
Began to fall,
All
You could see
Were the sad
Leaves scattered
On the ground.

You did not
Think to watch
For autumn
When the fruit
Is found.

There is value and pleasure on both sides, new and old. But you can't have them both at the same time. You have to give up the one to get to the other. Everything in it's time, I guess. A lesson for life.

So. Art, literature, relationships, and poetry all in one blog - I've run the gamut. Definitely a ramble. Thanks for sharing it with me.