On “…said by you, though, George.”

In my favorite Stephen Sondheim musical, Sunday in the Park with George, the artist George struggles to find his artistic vision. His muse, Dot, appears to him as a vision, and tells him what we  need to hear in order to stay the course in a creative life.

Dot asks George, Are you working on something new?

[GEORGE]
No. 

[DOT]
That is not like you, George. 

[GEORGE]
I’ve nothing to say

You have many things. 

[GEORGE]
Well, nothing that’s not been said

[DOT]
Said by you, though, George. 

And that’s it, right there. “Said by you, though, George.” There is little new in the universe. The goal cannot be (or should not be, in any event) to come up with something completely new. That’s a recipe for nothing and, equally, it’s unsustainable. 

But if each of us has the ability and opportunity to express ourselves and to share what we see and feel in the world, then everything we do is going to be unique. Because there are no two identical genetic codes. Said by you, though, George.

I considered this a lot over the last few weeks, as I navigated my way towards completing my first semester project for my MFA. At one point, I had a wobble (aka a case of the doubts) and I asked for thoughts from colleagues and friends. Some people gave some really useful insights (e.g., do what feels right to you), while others gave “advice” about how to make the work better, more marketable, etc. 

And then I did what I needed to do: I ignored it. 

The truth is, the path has to be right exclusively for the creator. You don’t put art to a majority vote. 

In that same number from Sondheim’s Sunday, Dot sings to George:

“Anything you do,
Let it come from you
Then it will be new.
Give us more to see.”

My god, if that isn’t the perfect gift — let it come from you so that you’re giving us more to see. 

I was unsure about the stitching in my work. It was intentionally harsh; it spoke of struggle. So I tried stitching in a gentle way, a way that speaks to healing rather than trauma.  I let it come from me. 

I stitched into my photograph of a wrinkled tomato, for example. Just a few little strokes. I ignored the outside voices that had suggested the work was more moving without the stitching; I listened exclusively to the voices in my head. 

It came to me, as I was working in this new way, that it felt right. I could feel myself starting to repeat a series of roughly five stitches (loops, crosses, etc.), and I understood that my process and my freedom had led me to create a kind of language. The language of small repair and resilience. 

When I wrote my project statement, I included humor.Why? Because that’s who I am. 

I leave on Sunday for my next retreat up in Rockport (Maine Media Workshop + College) and the end of my first semester of my MFA. Of all the things I am learning — and there are a large number — perhaps the most important one, and the lesson that will guide me through my work, is the lesson Dot gifts to George in the show: “Said by you, though, George”.

The lesson is to use my own voice. Follow my intuitions. Make the work my own. In that singularity of intention, the personal will be the universal.