What Means "Progress"?

Still life with Persian miniature and Athena, watercolor and ink, December 2021

There are two groups of people for whom "pandemic time" has taken on particular poignancy. The young, because they can only measure time by the years they've already lived, have felt like they were being robbed of a huge percentage of their lives. And the old have felt that the pandemic took away what was most meaningful: human contact with those they loved - as well as the loss of freedom and choice that everyone has suffered, but which has felt particularly bitter for those who see the years remaining as few. The only difference is that most of us who are older have seen and lived enough to be able to cope with loss, change, and the need for patience a bit better than those who are young. Even for those who are still feisty and determined, some level of acceptance about what we can't change often seems built-in by the time we reach our sixties and beyond.

Nevertheless, for someone who has always tried to move forward in her work and understanding, I've found it extremely difficult to have a sense of progress at all. Yes, I hold myself to a rather rigorous standard in that regard. But it's been so hard, and required steely determination, to have any sense of momentum, to envision goals and work toward them, or -- for that matter -- to think about the future. For what is that future? When will it arrive and will it look anything like what we've left behind? And -- this is the worst thought -- will there even be a future for me, for you?

I'm grateful for a bit of Buddhist teaching here, which reminds me that all we ever actually have is the present moment. Where I have trouble is when I start feeling like I've wasted so many of those "present moments". I can get quite down on myself about this. But when I do remember that wisdom, I'm more able to use those moments wisely.

What we don't see, and can't see yet (in my opinion) is what this extraordinary time has actually been, and continues to be: a massive interruption of all of our lives that will never go 'back to normal" but will result in changed people, and a changed human society, in the same way that wars have caused massive change for those who lived through them. Humans always want to go back to "what was," but in this case, that's not going to be possible. Partly because, with the variants, it feels like we're back at square one - even though we aren't - and partly because so much has already changed, including ourselves.

A friend wrote me today that he has realized he simply cannot go back to the work he has been doing for the past 35 years. He said he was extremely sad about that for a long while, but that now he's letting go. Another friend, a voracious reader and thinker, writes that she has trouble concentrating on books or music, and what she finds most difficult is the loss of a sense that she is growing and learning. Recovering these aspects of ourselves is going to take work, thought, and not a small amount of self-love and self-forgiveness. We have to be willing to let go of our old habits, goals, and expectations; to grieve what's lost; and, in time, embrace and open ourselves to something new that we may not even be able to see yet.

The paintings in this post were done 17 months apart; the one at the top just a few days ago, the other in July of 2020. The objects on my desktop look pretty much the same -- the jars of brushes and pens, the skull - memento mori -  atop the carved wooden box, the bowl of nuts and pine cones, the Chinese fans and Mycenean cup. But when I studied the two paintings I did notice a significant difference: in the more recent one, there are images of people. I had moved both the Persian painting and the postcard of "mourning Athena" (a relief carving I love from the Acroplis Museum in Athens) onto my desk fairly recently, and I think it's because I wanted to see images of humans. All right, Athena is a goddess, but she is always portrayed as a woman, and the mood and attitude of this carving seem particularly appropriate these days. And the Persian painting of lovers, with its delicious colors of blue and lavender, salmon and pink, its soft pillows and patterned fabrics, reminds me of love and languor and gardens outside the window, in suspended, storybook time.

I wasn't comparing the two to ask myself if I've made "progress" in an artistic or technical sense. Actually I think the bottom one, the earlier painting, is probably "better". But I don't keep a sketchbook and do paintings solely to try to move ahead that way, or judge myself. It's also to keep a visual diary, which often ends up telling me things I hadn't realized. The newer painting says that I was missing people, and wanted them near me. Thankfully, this fall and early winter we've shared some indoor dinners, and it's been a real happiness to be together that way again. At the same time, there are friends and family members I haven't seen for two years, and that's genuinely painful; there are others who have left us who I'll never see again.

We need, I think, to be less concerned with progress, and more with allowing ourselves space and time to grieve, to accept change, and to start to think about what's next for us only if, and when, we feel ready to do that. In the meantime, in the present moment, let's look around ourselves and see what's there.

Still life with Snail and Mycenean Cup, watercolor and ink, July 2020

Comments

[Siona van Dijk]

So beautiful, Beth, as always.

My pandemic season has been particularly poignant, as I got sober at the end of 2019-- just a few months before the pandemic struck. The pandemic in some ways made the commitment to sobriety easier, as there were no bars to go out to and no social settings to tempt me, and on the other more difficult, as evidenced by the skyrocketing alcohol consumption that occurred in the US. (The number of times in 2020 where I thought I'd picked the worst year ever to quit drinking!)

The reason I share this, though, is that there continues to me to be so many parallels between quitting an addiction and weathering a pandemic, especially when it comes to these long plateaus that feel like stagnation and anomie, when nothing seems to change and you forget that just surviving-- just holding things together-- is a nearly heroic accomplishment, and counts as progress enough.

[Jean]

Beautifully put and beautifully drawn - I identify with all of this.

[Duchesse]

I'm asking myself how much of my "productivity" was proving my value to those I worked for (or myself); how much "social life" was the ego salve of being known and desired. Not all of it was that, but the pandemic has caused me to be more discerning. I have had, during the past nearly two years, some deeply-connected conversations and experiences that I doubt I'd have had during the busy before-time.

A son returned from a trip to his childhood home town and told me his favourite bakery was still open but the hours were so erratic and mysterious that he'd given up buying one of his favourite tarts. That seems a metaphor for what life is like for young adults now, and there's no sign saying what the opening hours are. Noses pressed against the window, wondering when they can get in.

[Marly]

Perhaps it is simply more of the same struggle--the pandemic has been revelation and laying bare of existing truths we may find difficult. After Modernism and its aftershocks, in a realm of often spiritless art (and science, and government), we must find our own field and till our own soil. That way lies healing.

That said, the cruelty of the times to the very old (early on, dying in some semi-abandoned nursing home--ah, New York, you failed in love!) and to the young (thrust into ways of learning that deny human faces by masking, or our need for the physical presences of one another) is a heartbreaker.

[Beth]

"these long plateaus that feel like stagnation and anomie, when nothing seems to change and you forget that just surviving-- just holding things together-- is a nearly heroic accomplishment, and counts as progress enough."

Siona, thank you for your honesty here and also for expressing this truth - that is exactly it, isn't it? And for so many of us, the pandemic revealed our addictions - to shopping, to food and drink, to going out and partying with friends, to being so busy that we really didn't have to live with ourselves, or the people we supposedly love. No wonder everyone wanted things to go the way things had been. And I wonder how many have actually faced those addictions. But I'm so glad that you did, and know it must have been particularly hard during such a time.

[Edward Yankie]

Damn-demic. You put the whole thing in words better than I could have done. I think both paintings compliment each other nicely, and I see them as a bit of a diptych.

As always, i relate to everything you say. Those of us who create must always be kind to ourselves. I keep saying, Slow and steady wins the race. It's a cliche for a reason.

[Priya Sebastian]

It gives a sense of relief to know that others are going through the same confusion that I am, that I am not alone in this and in the feelings of hopelessness that sometimes arise. Reading your words and how you have articulated the difficult feelings and emotions that all of us are going through provides balm. The summing up, your last paragraph, is very true and it is what I will take from this post and carry with me.

[Beth]

Edward, I agree, the fable of the hare and the tortoise is a favorite of mine, because it really is true. And creative tasks that feel overwhelming and huge become less so when we tackle them in small pieces day by day, as I know you're doing with your writing. Bon courage!

Priya, it helps me to know that you share some of these feelings. I don't remember a time in my life that has felt like such a rollercoaster of moods; I try to be steady but it just hasn't been possible. Writing things out has been a help; so is going to the studio or trying to draw on a regular basis. I've loved seeing your drawings and photographs, and especially the exotic (to me) blossoms and pods you collect and then use in your work. Continuity of intention and purpose, halfway around the world -- there is something comforting in that.