Saturday, January 14, 2006
(11:56 AM) | Adam Kotsko:
One year ago today
was the last night I spent at my house in Bourbonnais, and so I suppose I've been living in Chicago for a year. I remember at the time thinking it would be somehow better to move on January 1 -- tidier, for tax purposes. As it stands, I'll be getting another W-2 from the chiropractor's office this year, even though it seems like forever ago that I worked there. Unlike most Americans, I eagerly look forward to tax time and file my taxes as soon as possible, since I have cleverly remained below the poverty level in order to deprive the government of its rightful share of my productive capacity.I find myself wanting to listen to the music that was playing most at this time last year -- every year I go through this same kind of cycle, as though I have to come to terms with the past in order to move forward. This year, the repeated music choices are Interpol's Antics and Fiona Apple's Extraordinary Machine (bootleg version). Objectively speaking, neither one is strikingly good, particularly lyrically. The worst offender is Interpol: "You make me want to strap on a guitar and celebrate the myriad ways that I love you." Right.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this post. Do I make the sudden turn away from mundane details toward deeper reflections, or do I end it here? After all, I have a lot of market research reports to do today -- and what a relief that's turning out to be, and to be fairly confident that I'll have more of that work waiting for me this summer. To some extent, if last year was the year of intense stress and adjustments, this year seems like it could potentially be a little more straightforward, in terms of "infrastructure" issues. Hopefully I at least won't feel like my life is falling completely apart every two months.
I know about the city stickers and the special parking permit for trucks now. I've got a pretty good grasp of the relevant parts of the public transit system. I don't get lost now when I drive. I know the numbers of the streets for the most part (2000N, etc.). I have some idea now of how the academic publishing business works, and particularly of the huge amount of lag time involved at every step. I've got my language requirements met. I have a set route to walk every day -- walking two miles a day, every day, like I'm a healthy person. My beard is coming along nicely. Everything's pretty much in place. Doug covers the blog for me Thursdays, and maybe Brad will do Wednesdays. I've got the Tuesday Hatred and Friday Confession pretty well under control. Within the next (calendar) year I'll be mainly done with my coursework and will have probably taken the 20th century exam. I will have moved into my own place (hopefully) -- a more settled situation, "hunkering down" for the long stretch of the PhD. Hoop-jumping: under control. Money situation: probably basically under control over the medium term.
I've got my infrastructure. Theoretically, this should open up a space of freedom for me -- right? With nothing to worry about, really, my energies should be freed for creative work, for exploring relationships, making new friends, trying new and interesting types of food, etc., etc. Right?
There's an alternate theory, of course -- that the space for real creativity is only opened up by taking "all that" and throwing it away. Perhaps it's better to think in terms of different kinds of creative work -- domesticated and wild, perhaps. I had in mind the difference between a classical composer and a rock star, but then I remembered reading about the life of Mozart (from my German reader, as part of my dutiful and timely fulfillment of requirements). His life fits much more closely the model of the genius down on his luck, the kind who always tempts us to view his suffering as instrumental, as though he "wouldn't have been Mozart" if he had had a better infrastructure. Vicarious suffering -- it's almost impossible to get away from. The artist, the exceptional person, suffers, lives a life of deprivation, all so that he can produce something that is meaningful precisely for domesticated people. We are quick to say that the art wouldn't have been as good if he hadn't been in such difficult circumstances -- do we ever ask whether our appreciation of the art would be much better if we weren't in such comfortable circumstances?
The artist suffers for us, but also enjoys for us. It's not that the art wouldn't have meant as much to us had he not suffered, but ultimately that it wouldn't have meant as much as him -- the artist is the priest who offers himself up to art for us. Might our task then be to reread aesthetics as Christology?
I wonder about Karl Barth's attraction to Mozart -- if Mozart represented for him a different route that Barth could have gone down. Barth, the country parson and labor organizer who made his name with a Bible commentary that was, improbably, a genuine work of art, who in a sense gave "all that" up for a domesticated professorship where he produced a very different kind of work, one that paid its scholarly dues almost to excess -- was his love for Mozart a testament to his hope that the work he did, weighed down by the responsibilities of domesticity and scholarship, could despite everything be as light and free and daring as the work of a man with no place to call his own?
