I spent most of the last day not ready to listen, not ready to think about it. I walked away from coverage on television, and I didn't read. I couldn't process it at first. Wouldn't even let myself try. It wasn't from a place of fear, it was from a place of unspeakable anger. Everything that makes life bearable for me revolves around art. Art provides beauty at the same time it strips the gloss off of our illusions. It calms and it riles. It amuses and it angers. But it must be unfettered. I don't have to like your art to recognize that you get to have it whether I want you to or not. I may think your tattoo is stupid, your pastoral oil painting is treacly sweet, or your music is simply offensive. First and foremost, it is on your skin, your wall over your uncomfortable davenport, or blasting at you inside your own car. I get to walk away from it. If you try to tell me my prog rock is boring, my writing is repetitive, or my pottery is clunky and amateurish, then good for you, you don't have to listen, read, or own my stuff. I'm still going to listen to Marillion, write my little blog about plants and cats, and someday when I have access to a kiln, I'm going to make more things with clay, and you can shove it. What neither of us gets to do is stop the other from either enjoying or creating our artistic statements.
Editorial cartoons are art. They are creative expression designed to provoke emotions and dialogue. They are not a justification to kill in the name of anyone's arbitrary rules of behavior. What happened in Paris alienated a lot more people than could possibly have been persuaded to accept the beliefs of the killers. I almost hope it inspires a whole lot more people to draw pictures, for the sake of proving that the power of free expression is far greater than the dark, closed-mindedness of suppression. Am I ready to publish such a drawing? I'm not sure. I haven't drawn one yet. But I'm tempted. Maybe I'll take a Sharpie to the tip of my middle finger, and draw a face...
No comments:
Post a Comment