I have often wondered how and why Proust came to the point where he said to himself, "Now, it is time to begin writing a single story for the next decade and some." By now, though, nine-hundred pages into what I am beginning to see in what is (at least partly) a catalog of one man's journey to an understanding of art's purpose in his life and the purpose of his (and others') creations in the lives of others, a sort of thesis statement forming. As can be gleaned from a few quotes in Budding Grove (and surely many more I have missed, including in Swann's Way while Proust expounds upon Bergotte's gifts as a writer and their effects on Proust's psyche and heart) as in, "...in the state of mind in which we 'observe' we are a long way below the level to which we rise when we create," (Proust, 825) it grows more apparent to me by the page that Proust truly believed art and its creation to be a vital aspect of human existence.
It would appear that, while I reflected some days ago on the value reading these volumes would have held for me some years ago in light of some emotional truths present in my life at the time, I was missing the mark to a fairly large degree in terms of the importance and value that, had I removed the blinders of nostalgia and the power of memory, I would have immediately found available to me in reading these pages today. It is too simple to use Proust's work as an excuse to revisit the past and to reflect upon it, while ignoring the power that these books provide in regards to developing an objective analysis of the past, and thusly for the cognizant (I hope I am at least this much) mind, the ability of these books to develop within an astute reader the faculty to more fully realize the terms and the details of the present.
I'm afraid that I might be losing some of you, as I nearly lost myself twice up there in that wall; Mrs. Fast of seventh grade English class, I am sorry for my run-on sentences; I have been unable to fully remove them from my person.
There is absolutely no possibility for me to ignore, in discussing Proust's treatise (if no scholar will scourge me for calling it thus!) on the realities of art and creation, this particular gem with which I cannot decide I vehemently agree or disagree as yet:
"Although it is rightly said that there can be no progress, no discovery in art, but only in the sciences, and that each artist starting afresh on an individual effort can be either helped or hindered therein by the efforts of any other, it must none the less be acknowledged that, in so far as art brings out certain laws, once an industry has taken those laws and popularised [sic] them, the art that was first in the field loses retrospectively a little of its originality," (Proust 896)
Proust deserves a wholesale attack in regards to some of this statement, i.e. the entirety of the statement up until "...it must none the less be acknowledged that..." due to my (here, I am sure) disagreement with them on (creative [moral, perhaps]) grounds, but has earned my full admiration for his remarks following that point. First, though, the issue standing with part one of that remark is that, in my experiences, which I cannot be sure Proust would either justify or condemn as a grounds for judgment as yet, due to the early stage of my acquaintance with him, there is certainly "progress," and "discovery" in art and that any artist starting "afresh on an individual effort" is of course "helped or hindered therein by the efforts of any other" insomuch as it is impossible for any current creator to engage in the act of creation without being profoundly influenced by thousands of years of creation that he or she has been inundated by since youth.
To assume that any artist could, somehow, avoid the help or hindrance of the entirety of creative human production in the recorded history of our species, with help and/or hindrance being subjective entirely to the artist and to the audience concerned in regards to the creation, flies in the face of not only my own experiences, but the experiences of countless other artists (and creators in general) in multiple fields. However, there is a kernel of truth in Proust's sweeping statement, though, in the latter section. His statement here that, as art uncovers or elucidates certain truths or, perhaps, trends and structures (for lack of an immediately available "better word") the first works to undertake these uncoverings and elucidations (which I would brand as progress and discovery, M. Proust...) are typically viewed as, over time, exponentially less daring in their undertakings as time marches on and further works by other creators broaden the exposure to what were once unique insights and findings.
To finish my earlier thought, and the seed from which this wall of crap I am so sorry to put you through, dear readers, grew: I was, as I began this project and for some months prior, at a total loss as to what art's place in my life was. I was unsure as to what I was doing, why I was doing it, and what I was "supposed" to do in the future. I had fully lost my bearings; my compass was on the table before me, the needle spinning while the map underneath it seemed to blur and smudge. As I dive deeper into these books, however, I am finding both agreeable and not-so-agreeable insights in regards to art and its role, not only in my life but in the lives of all people, in such quantities that at the very least, I have come to recognize certain truths regarding art, for me.
The value to these recognitions has been nearly limitless; I have felt a great weight lifted from me, and witnessed a great darkness wiped from my field of view. Having spent many of my aware years in pursuit of creation, it is a refreshing turn for me to find what I have thus found in these volumes.
Art is good.
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