Witness-- I have carefully constructed this moment, a work of art with no audience. My father's plaid wool overshirt, my grandfather's grey wool cap, both incongruous with my large dangling earrings. On the table a pack of clove cigarettes and a glass of red wine; a cigarette in one hand and a fountain pen in the other. In front, a window looking into my neighbor's dining room. Above, the stars. Is this not the very picture of a writer, in all her bohemian splendor? It's perfect-- I wish you could see it.
Absolutely I am posing, posing for myself if no one else (but there is always the hope of an observer.) Many years ago I grew conscious of my self-consciousness, and was repulsed by my own artifice. How could I be so stagy, my words and actions orchestrated for effect? What was I really like, who would I be if I was not constantly performing for some unseen observer?
This proves a much more difficult question than it would seem. First of all, the in-turned eye cannot be shuttered. It does blink occasionally, but by definition those are the very moments we're unaware of. The moment we realize we are (at last, at last!) having a moment of unselfconsciousness, it is over.
Here irony is born, born with a squint, born in the act of catching yourself trying to look at yourself with your eyes closed. An ugly child, but some hypnotic glint peeps from under her half-closed eyelids. She spends most of her time playing with parallel mirrors, watching the curved chamber of reflected frames grow deeper as it straightens-- but at the moment it becomes perfectly straight, and the chamber on either side stretches to infinity, her head blocks the reflection and she can only see her own face. And she laughs.
Irony, once born, is with you for good as far as I can tell. Then the best you can hope for is a semblance of unselfconsciousness; the best you can do is to stifle actions and words that come with too-conscious artistic pride. If you think, before doing something, "What a fine picture this would make!" then refrain, in the name of authenticity. You do not want to be like those dramatic ones who are forever saying things for effect (though how you do envy them for how easy and carefree they are with their studied artifice!)
But beware-- since the self-scrutinizer rarely sleeps, the only actions this rule will permit are dull ones. You may wait and wait for lovely and dramatic actions to spring forth spontaneously in your life, but if you have actually gotten this far with me then I can assure you you will never actually be spontaneous, ever. On the rare moments when a spontaneous impulse emerges, you will seize it with such glee that it bursts at once. So you will find that, forbidding yourself all artificial action, you have become a mere watcher of other people's action, adding no flourishes of interest and beauty to the human gallery. You hoped that, by now, self-consciousness might have retired a bit, having little of interest to watch, but she shows no signs of slackening.
Better accept that, for you, authenticity is only to be found in the shifting scopes of artifice, in costumes and poses which you assume as the mood strikes you, parading before the mirror, and before an audience if you can find one. Construct; fabricate; dazzle; entertain. The truth may be in there somewhere. It is not for you to find.
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2 comments:
Here's a question; is there anything about that scene you would have changed, if you had been doing what you wanted and not what you thought looked right? Was there a shirt you might have worn but didn't because it wasn't egghead enough for you? Do you smoke clove cigarrettes exclusively for the intellectual feel, and not because of genuine enjoyment? Would you do something other than write if you had the choice?
I feel like this a lot. When I read The Outsiders for the first time and cried my heart out, I remember posing as I cried, although I was alone (and I wouldn't have cried if anyone had been there). I do the same with what I wear, for instance, I carry a leather bag that looks remarkably like Professor Kelley's and my hairstyle is an outright copy of Cat Power's. But I think Elizabeth's question is really interesting. I wonder, would I have liked Bob Dylan from the start if I had never heard of him before? Would I pick stuff up off the street if Prof. Kelley hadn't told us about artists using found objects in their art? If I hadn't known that Cat Power was "cool" would I have cut my hair like hers? Hmmm.
Have you read Brideshead Revisited? I read it recently (so good!) and in one part a character reproaches another character for seeing everything secondhand, in references. It was really striking to me because almost everything I do or think or say is in reference to something. I think that's connected to this artifice because we construct ourselves by all these reference points.
I'm going to ponder this some more.
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