Where we tend to vent

Last weekend I went to the Art Institute of Chicago with my parents while they were in town to visit. I like museums, but I don't actively seem them out - I was glad to have a reason to go.

The Art Institute is a fairly famous museum, home to such paintings as Grant Wood's 'American Gothic' and Georges Seurat's 'A Sunday on La Grande Jatte,' and our trip was pretty fun, especially considering I took an art appreciation class in spring and recognized some of the work.

The part about our trip to the Institute that caught me off guard was how much my mom knows about art. Maybe I'm just a terrible listener, or maybe it was just never brought up, but apparently she studied art in Paris when she studied abroad there. (Who knew?) As we walked the halls of the institute, she went from painting to painting commenting on the artist or movement each piece of work reflected. I was impressed.

No work at the museum excited my mom more than those from the Impressionist period. She happily described how the movement was a change from the clear-cut, hard-edged depictions of life to softer, looser, more expressive depictions (from this to this.) It gave her great joy to go from piece to piece detailing her thoughts on each, and I found myself sharing in that joy.

The joy I found mostly stemmed from discovery - as I viewed each painting, I searched the canvas for some sort of deeper meaning, some lost emotion that the artist was trying to share with me. It was fun, it was refreshing, and it reminded me why I love music - and for that matter, most art.

You see, the way I see it, art is a reflection of the collection of thoughts, emotions, pains, joys and wonder that we all experience within ourselves. Art is a reflection of what makes us each unique; it is our representation of what we can not put simply into words, of those things that constantly weigh on us and excite us and drive us to live life. Every being experiences love, joy, pain, anger, humility, sadness - it is how we handle those experiences that sets us apart from each other. And in art we have a way to vent, to organize those experiences and create something physical, something real out of them. By doing this we are able to make sense of our feelings, and we are able to connect with others who can relate.

Artists like Seurat and Monet and DaVinci have done this. So have Lennon, Dylan and Hendrix. Same with Hitchcock, Scorsese and Tarantino. For some it is painting, for others film, for others maybe Play-doh.

For me, I find solace in writing, and I find solace in music. I try to vent through the writing, and I try to connect through the music. And if you're reading this now then you know how bad I am at keeping up with the writing.

So I usually clasp to music. There are songs that describe my every emotion - whether I'm sad, happy, angry, or simply in love with life, there is music that I can turn to that does a better job describing that emotion than I could ever do. Music takes the weight of my pent-up emotions and releases it by making form of it.

I find it in music in two forms that so beautifully intertwine with each other: in the musicianship and in the lyrics. The musicianship is what tends to catch my attention first; be it tender guitar picking or killer riffs, the right tempo and right melody set the mood for the story a song will tell. And the lyrics tell that story through words big and small, through sentences long and short. When these two elements are put together, they transport me to another place and help make sense of this life I'm living.

Mind you, I don't just listen to music that describes exactly what I'm feeling. For example, I still listen to sad break-up songs, even though I am so much in love with Katie that I could never understand the pain those songs describe. Denison Witmer is one of my favorites, but his songs are clearly influenced by at least one painful break-up. And a lot of stuff I listen to doesn't even have sensible lyrics; Sufjan Stevens, my favorite artist, usually sings of imagery I can relate to, but his state albums have a lot of lyrics that come across as nonsense. Not all of the music I listen to perfectly describes my life, but there is something in the way they create it that makes me understand what they are feeling, that transports me to their shoes, and I am able to find joy in discovery.

Kind of like when I was looking at the paintings at the Art Institute.

There is much more I could say about this; I've written about it in the past and I'll write more in the future. It was the reason I started this blog - to talk about the music that is describing my life. But for now, I'll sign off with the lyrics of one of my favorite songs. It's one of those songs that rocks you to your core because you understand it; you can feel it, you have lived it. The song is called "The Ballad of Love and Hate" by The Avett Brothers. The last verse has brought me to tears more than once. I could tell you what the song is about, and what I think it really means, and why I am so moved by its tale, but I'll let you discover that for yourself (and I highly recommend listening to the song as well.)

~
Love writes a letter and sends it to hate.
"My vacation's ending, I'm coming home late.
The weather was fine and the ocean was great
and I can't wait to see you again."

Hate reads the letter and throws it away.
"No one here cares if you go or you stay.
I barely even noticed that you were away.
I'll see you or I won't, whatever."

Love sings a song as she sails through the sky.
The water looks bluer through her pretty eyes.
And everyone knows it whenever she flies,
and also when she comes down.

Hate keeps his head up and walks through the street.
Every stranger and drifter he greets.
And shakes hands with every loner he meets
with a serious look on his face.

Love arrives safely with suitcase in tow.
Carrying with her the good things we know.
A reason to live and a reason to grow.
To trust. To hope. To care.

Hate sits alone on the hood of his car.
Without much regard to the moon or the stars.
Lazily killing the last of a jar
of the strongest stuff you can drink.

Love takes a taxi, a young man drives.
As soon as he sees her, hope fills his eyes.
But tears follow after, at the end of the ride,
cause he might never see her again.

Hate gets home lucky to still be alive.
He screams o'er the sidewalk and into the drive.
The clock in the kitchen says 2:55,
And the clock in the kitchen is slow.

Love has been waiting, patient and kind.
Just wanting a phone call or some kind of sign,
That the one that she cares for, who's out of his mind,
Will make it back safe to her arms.

Hate stumbles forward and leans in the door.
Weary head hung, eyes to the floor.
He says "Love, I'm sorry", and she says, "What for?
I'm yours and that's it, whatever.
I should not have been gone for so long.
I'm your's and that's it, forever."

You're mine and that's it, forever.