11.04.21: A Little Closer to Honesty

This week I reflect on the importance of honesty in my work, and the difficulty in being truly vulnerable.

Creativity takes courage

I think of this short quote from French painter Henri Matisse often, because I think there’s a real truth in his words.

I firmly believe that truly important art, regardless of the format, comes from a place of honesty - of vulnerability. The artists has a responsibility to be honest with his audience, and to do this, he must also be honest with himself.

But, for most of us, this is much harder than it sounds. Reflecting honestly on the person you are, on the people you have been, takes genuine courage. Because the truth is, the things you find are not always comfortable.

There is a temptation to craft our narrative in ways that make us out to be better than, perhaps, we are. It is human to paint ourselves us as the heroes in our own story. But this is rarely the truth, and accepting our own flaws, our own insecurities, allows us to approach our work in a way that is far more meaningful.

As with anything, I think this comes with practice.

I have been writing full-time for the past two years now, and I don’t think the work I produced at the beginning is nearly as honest as the poems I’m writing now. While I’m proud of this work, there’s no doubt it comes at a cost.

I’ve written recently about the trauma of writing, and how the process of reflecting on the things that have hurt you can take from you. But the payoff for this willingness to be vulnerable is, hopefully, art that carries meaning - art that will be remembered.

I wanted to write something new for this letter, because I wanted to know I could still follow my own advice. This poem, called Because You Loved Her, is about driving three hours to her house shortly after things ended, and being too much of a coward to knock on her door. It’s about admitting to myself that I am not always courageous, even when it matters most:

Because You Loved Her

you drive to a city
that has long-since forgotten you,
the roads lit yellow
and scarred with night.

the same night
that spit you into morning,
because the grave is another home
that doesn’t want you.

her door is the same
wind-worn blue that you remember,
but you cannot bring yourself
to open it.

because the mouth
is also a crypt, and nothing here
can be resurrected.
and so you tell yourself

this will be the last time,
you tell yourself that she is better off,
and your skin bristles
only with winter.

—-

Of course, not everything that’s honest will be good. And maybe, not everything good will be honest, but I truly believe that our work stands a better chance of resonating with others when we are a little more vulnerable. When we are a little closer to honesty.

Yours,

Blake