Dear Reader,
I recently ran across a video in which Bill Murray talks about being discouraged and hopeless after what he considered a bad performance. He wandered Chicago, going the opposite direction from what he intended, until he ran into The Art Institute. Being drawn inside, he stood in front of the painting The Song of the Lark by Jules Breton, and a heartsore Murray took solace in the painting that he now credits with saving his life.
I’ve stood in front of that painting myself more than once, seeing its beauty and its depth, its message, or at least what I understand its message to be. But I never dreamed it had saved Murray’s life.
It turns out Willa Cather, too, was moved by the painting, enough to write a novel she named after it.
Until I read it (and now I will for sure), I can only imagine the intertwining, if any, of the two, though a quick read of a summary of the novel makes me think I already see connections. Apparently the young (fictional) protagonist repeatedly visits the painting, long before Murray did.
I know what it is to be inspired by paintings to write stories, poems, and even novels based on them.
I know whereof I speak.
What we can’t know, Dear Reader, is what our life’s work, what our art, can and will mean to someone else. Sometimes a brave soul tells us, but often no one does and we keep going, keep creating, anyway because we must.
It’s the ultimate act of hope. (Am I overstating things, Word Raccoon? I don’t think I am.)
There’s an accumulation, maybe even an accretion, of art from this one piece, too, and the possible effect on others: Breton painting a work that moved Cather to write a novel. Her work in turn inspired others. Van Gogh was an admirer of Breton’s work. On and on.
Word Raccoon and I soothed ourselves this afternoon after distressing world news by listening to the song of the lark, ironically from an online source (the only immediately available one) and gazing at the digital painting of The Song of the Lark.
The Art Institute is particularly on my radar right now because my early-birthday event (the ghoulish one that I might name later if I’m not too embarrassed) is in the vicinity of Chicago, and now Word Raccoon and I are dreaming of a train trip into the city beforehand (scheming, more like) to see the Cassatt exhibit.
Psst…there’s also a Lee Miller photography exhibit there that beckons. WR and I admire someone who knows how to remake herself and live multiple lives.
Drema