One arrives in Provincetown having heard much about its strangeness: the colorful and clannish locals, the dreary winters, the feeling of isolation. One also hears a lot about artist’s colonies: the inspiration of having a community, the debauchery, the likelihood that one will either get fat, become an alcoholic, or destroy a marriage during those long winter months.
But so far, I haven’t eaten to excess or poisoned my liver or pursued anybody’s husband. But it’s only day four, and it’s like 76 degrees. I’ve prowled around the town a bit, where there are lots of sashaying men with bushy mustaches, and ambling tourists. An old woman nearly fell into my arms when she came careening out of an ice cream shop. Later, I found a headstone by the roadside that belonged to a sailor who died in the 1700’s. Beyond my desk, where so far nothing much has occurred in the way of writing, there is a small garden with tomatoes ripening on the vine. Sometimes I see a painter or a poet sneak into the garden and pluck one away.
Last night, there was a show-and-tell, in which the writers read and the artists showed slides of their work. Most of all, I enjoyed listening to the artists describe their work. They are unapologetic about their obsessions, and unquestioning. “I’m interested in furniture.” “I’m interested in props.” “I’m interested in machines that either work, or work metaphorically.” “I’m interested in myth-making.” “I’m interested in making a life-sized Colossal Squid.”
Writers seem less quick to articulate what motivates them. I’m interested in words? Writers also seem less able to move rapidly from one interest to the next. A painter might be doing collages involving the human body and cigarette butts, and then they’ll move suddenly into a new phase where they etch scientific data onto sheet metal. Then maybe they’ll film themselves rolling in oil, or something like that.
Perhaps one can learn something from visual artists about giving in to curiosities, exploring them unabashedly, and then moving on to something new. Perhaps I can learn to say, when faced with that ubiquitous question “What do you write about?” that I’m interested in methamphetamine, goldfish, and making up lies about the people I love. I can tell them I’m leaving my taxidermy phase and beginning to explore the elderly. “I’m interested in using familiar marks on paper to create a gigantic story that will, when read, seem like an actual place with actual people in it.”
Woah--I just blew my own mind.
