Late bloomers

I've been thinking a lot over the past few weeks about an article from Malcolm Gladwell that appeared in the New Yorker last month. "Late Bloomers" is the title of the article.

I've liked Gladwell for a while, but this article raised my appreciation for his writing to new level. I'm very thankful for this article.

In the article, he compares "child prodigies" to "late bloomers." He illuminates the difference between Picasso (who began producing powerful work in his 20s) and Cezanne (who plugged away for decades and produced his best work at the end of his life).

Naturally, I'm reading something of my own situation into this article. Because I've been panicking just a little lately. I'm in my mid-30s! I should have accomplished more by now! I'm sunk! It's all downhill from here! (Et cetera, ad nauseam.)

One of the bits from the article that I appreciated most was this quote from economist David Galenson, discussing the "slow burn" approach to creativity from the Cezannes of the world:

The imprecision of their goals means that these artists rarely feel they have succeeded, and their careers are consequently often dominated by the pursuit of a single objective. These artists repeat themselves, painting the same subject many times, and gradually changing its treatment in an experimental process of trial and error. Each work leads to the next, and none is generally privileged over others, so experimental painters rarely make specific preparatory sketches or plans for a painting. They consider the production of a painting as a process of searching, in which they aim to discover the image in the course of making it; they typically believe that learning is a more important goal than making finished paintings. Experimental artists build their skills gradually over the course of their careers, improving their work slowly over long periods. These artists are perfectionists and are typically plagued by frustration at their inability to achieve their goal.

Boy, does that resonate. The quote talks about frustration, but I was so heartened to read it: Maybe there's hope for me! Maybe there are still good photos in my future! Maybe it's OK that I feel stalked, haunted, hunted by work still begging to be made.

I have begun seeing my therapist again with some regularity. She helped me through my divorce, and after that, I gradually tapered off my visits. But lately it seems like it's time to get back into a conversation. Last time I saw her, we started talking about photography again, for the thousandth time, about how frequently I dream about photography, about how I "don't know what I'm doing with it," but how I feel deeply compelled to keep working at it. Every time I choose not to follow it or engage with it, it feels like a self-inflicted wound. It feels like a big old lie.

She said, "I'm glad you're bringing this up now. I think you should bring some of your work in with you next time, and we'll talk about it." She is an artist herself, and someone I admire hugely. This feels like it could be an interesting conversation.

So, here I am, Saturday afternoon, ordering some prints for our session coming up this week. I have no idea what will come of these sessions, but it feels so good to open up the conversation about photography in a place that is totally safe. I'm taking prints of Amy with me (above). The photos I most recently shot were of her (see also this photo and this pairing). She is an inspiration and a favorite model. These photos feel like a good place to start.

why I find corporate America so annoying

Though I am mostly out on my own lately, I still freelance occasionally for a major corporate client. It's good money, and it helps fill in the gaps in my freelance work flow. So I'm grateful. Of course, that one bit of corporate freelancing still comes with a lot of stupidity. Here's the first sentence I came across in my inbox this morning:

"We talked last week about the importance of actively engaging around the Value Campaigns that are being rolled out in our local market, and providing impactful "on-the-ground" support to both our GEP's and our local Campaign Champions in ensuring that we are successfully executing against both identified and logical additions to the target lists."

With language like that, it's no wonder I wanted to leave an environment like this...

I am thinking about prayer

Tonight I am thinking about prayer. I miss it. I want it back.

I somehow gave prayer up around the time of my divorce in 2005. (My friend Amy wrote a perfectly wonderful first sentence in a short story years ago. It says something like, "I quit praying a few years ago, around the same time I quit smoking, and for the same reasons." I've botched the line dreadfully, but I can't find a record of the real thing.)

When I quit praying, back in 2005, it was hard at first. I kept reaching for it, like Amy's cigarette. I felt frustrated by my own spiritual confusion. I wanted desperately to have everything figured out. I believed prayer would work best if I had broad, open lines between me and the Deity, whatever his/her name was. It would be best if I knew my place and worked forward from there. But I didn't know what to call God. I got hung up from the get-go. Praying is tough when you literally can't get past the first word.

Last week I came across this bit of a Rumi poem. I feel like it was written for me:

If you cannot pray sincerely, offer your dry, hypocritical,
agnostic prayer; for God in His mercy accepts bad coin.

It doesn't matter if we have it all figured out, or if we're totally confused. It still counts.

My mother asked me nervously last week, after the election was over, after my father was out of earshot, if I considered myself a Republican or a Democrat. I didn't give her a straight answer; I wasn't in the mood to break her heart with my liberal politics. Later I realized her question was probably about my faith — she wanted to know if her daughter is still Christian, if her daughter still shares her values, if her daughter still believes in God.

I still don't know what I believe. I'm really not interested in studying different understandings of the divine and figuring out resonates most with me.

But I think prayer is a worthy pursuit. I think finding a way to feel connected to something larger than ourselves is a worthy pursuit.

People need prayer. They deserve prayer. Maybe prayer is one of the best gifts I have to offer people who are in a lot of pain. So tonight I am praying for my friend S. who is working hard to get her life back after suffering from depression for years. I'm praying for J.'s mother, who is in the hospital again with an unexplained illness. I'm praying for D., a woman I've never met, whose young son died unexpectedly this week. I'm praying for J., who is stretched thin with the demands of motherhood, who needs a really good night of sleep.

Ultimately this is about connection with a greater, older, deeper wisdom. Mary Oliver says it better than I ever could:

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.