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Posts Tagged ‘Maria Popova’

We now know that memories are not fixed or frozen, like Proust’s jars of preserves in a larder, but are transformed, disassembled, reassembled, and recategorized with every act of recollection.

Memories are often our own creations. If our memories are fallible, then our beliefs are shaped by them as well. My tendency is to value rationality and believe that there is one true version of events, or one realized history, but it is often difficult, if not impossible, to arrive at that truth.

If there is no easy way to separate memory from truth, and if our beliefs are often wrong or shaped by our external environment, then the truth may sometimes be impossible to determine. In those cases, we might as well adopt interpretations that improve our lives and make the world a better place.

Here’s Maria Popova summarizing Oliver Sacks’s view and pondering whether the fallibility of memory may be essential to creativity.

Excerpts:

We, as human beings, are landed with memory systems that have fallibilities, frailties, and imperfections — but also great flexibility and creativity. Confusion over sources or indifference to them can be a paradoxical strength: if we could tag the sources of all our knowledge, we would be overwhelmed with often irrelevant information.

Indifference to source allows us to assimilate what we read, what we are told, what others say and think and write and paint, as intensely and richly as if they were primary experiences. It allows us to see and hear with other eyes and ears, to enter into other minds, to assimilate the art and science and religion of the whole culture, to enter into and contribute to the common mind, the general commonwealth of knowledge. This sort of sharing and participation, this communion, would not be possible if all our knowledge, our memories, were tagged and identified, seen as private, exclusively ours. Memory is dialogic and arises not only from direct experience but from the intercourse of many minds.

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From The Economist’s obituary on David Hockney:

Having decided on the composition, he used props and photographs, played with perspectives, and paced out measurements in the studio: all the techniques he’d learned at art school and since. Mostly, though, he was working from the heart. Painting was how he made sense of the world…

Painting 18 hours a day, seven days a week, he finished it at last the night before the shippers came to take it to America. He felt like his hero Picasso, who liked to say: “I’m not painting; I’m exploring.”…

He stopped worrying about being contemporary and set about creating his own kind of art, art of his own time…

Finding new ways of making art filled his life with a sense of renewal…

Soon he would swap paints for pixels, becoming just as adept at painting portraits and landscapes first on his phone, then on an iPad. In 2012 he covered four walls of the Royal Academy with iPad paintings of one particular bend of one lane in east Yorkshire, on every day of the year and in every sort of light. Just before covid-19 struck in 2019 he moved to Normandy, and posted digital pictures of the emerging spring. These were later turned into a massive galleria, a cathedral of green, enough to fill L’Orangerie in Paris. If his poolside painting of the man in the peachy-pink jacket was a snapshot of a moment when he was 35, he described his final work as his Bayeux Tapestry, a long walk through a whole life.

From BBC’s obituary:

He had simply followed one rule: “Paint the things you love”…

He was single-minded and devoted to drawing. The wartime shortage of paper restricted his early efforts to the kitchen floor and hymn books in church…

Hockney’s appearance may have been flamboyant but his work ethic was Protestant. For 12 hours a day, he worked furiously at his easel…

His work-rate remained prodigious. He placed a sign at the foot of his bed in Notting Hill, telling himself to “GET UP AND START WORK IMMEDIATELY”.

If he grew tired of drawing, Hockney would take photographs, do etchings or design operas. He was haunted by the feeling he wasn’t doing enough…

Few artists have been more excited by technology than Hockney…

Hockney’s new passion was landscapes: the traditional pastime of the weekend amateur.

He moved to Bridlington, where his sister and elderly mother now lived, and began to paint the Yorkshire Wolds.

Each summer, the teenage Hockney had cycled here from Bradford to earn pocket money on local farms. 

The countryside was beautiful and brought back memories of working on the harvest and sleeping in barns with his friends.

For Hockney, this was just as much a paradise as California in the 1960s.

He stood outdoors in all weathers, he painted hundreds of scenes of lush meadows and roadside verges. They were often on a monumental scale.

It was an old man’s challenge to an art scene focused on the young, the cynical and the conceptual.

And Shelia Hicks on her work from Maria Popova:

I don’t even think about art. People want to pull me into the art thing all the time… Is this art or isn’t this art… What is art? I think people do what they feel like doing, and not authenticating things. These podcasts and these interviews and this reportage and these exhibitions, a lot of it has to do with trying to authenticate things, validate things. Here in Paris, we have a hundred exhibitions opening every week. What are we validating? And if you’re not validated and if you’re not being exhibited, what are you doing? Are you wasting your time or are you just simply doing what you feel like doing and that you like doing?

When I made this, I didn’t make it with any intention that it’s supposed to be craft or art or design or decoration. Or what is it? It just is. Take it or leave it.

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Pixar’s Andrew Stanton,  on story telling – “And that’s what it really is, is that we all live life conditionally. We’re all willing to play by the rules and follow things along, as long as certain conditions are met. After that, all bets are off.”

Meghan Daum on Nostalgia, Aging, and Why We Romanticize Our Imperfect Younger Selves – “But here’s what Older Self will not have the heart to say: some of the music you are now listening to — the CDs you play while you stare out the window and think about the five million different ways your life might go — will be unbearable to listen to in twenty years. They will be unbearable not because they will sound dated and trite but because they will sound like the lining of your soul. They will take you straight back to the place you were in when you felt that anything could happen at any time, that your life was a huge room with a thousand doors, that your future was not only infinite but also elastic. They will be unbearable because they will remind you that at least half of the things you once planned for your future are now in the past and others got reabsorbed into your imagination before you could even think about acting on them. It will be as though you’d never thought of them in the first place, as if they were never meant to be anything more than passing thoughts you had while playing your stereo at night.”

Pico Lyer and The Art of Stillness – “Going nowhere … isn’t about turning your back on the world; it’s about stepping away now and then so that you can see the world more clearly and love it more deeply…It’s only by taking myself away from clutter and distraction that I can begin to hear something out of earshot and recall that listening is much more invigorating than giving voice to all the thoughts and prejudices that anyway keep me company twenty-four hours a day. And it’s only by going nowhere — by sitting still or letting my mind relax — that I find that the thoughts that come to me unbidden are far fresher and more imaginative than the ones I consciously seek out.”

Brain Pickings’ Maria Popova on Tim Ferriss’ podcast

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