In Demand, or Too Demanding?

On Being a "Real" Writer or a "Real Artist"

I recently collaborated on the creation of a new website called “Babushkin’s Playhouse” (Babushkin being the family name from which my father’s older brothers carved out our name “Bush”). The site is a kind of museum of my creative work — books and other writings, artworks, and music — which I hope to grow into a theater of interactivity as well as a marketplace at which to sell my stuff.

There’s a degree of embarrassment involved in launching and promoting this site, because I know that my reputation as a writer and artist hovers precariously above the borderline separating people whose creative work is in demand (they have enthusiastic fans) from those who demand attention for their efforts (they have obliging friends). Embarrassed or not, however, this is how I spend many of my days: writing, creating visual art, composing and playing music, and seeking to share it all in hope that people will be moved and think well of me.

So I hover at that borderline. It is a line reinforced by all the new technologies that are enabling millions of people to express and share their creativity in ways that were once available only to people with training and social connections. I’m among those millions when it comes to visual art: Without iPhone cameras and Photoshop, I’d have created none of it.

Am I, nevertheless, a “real” artist? Can I include “artist” on my gravestone? Whenever people who are struggling with getting published have asked me if they are “real writers,” I’ve usually answered: Do you spend a lot of your spare time writing? Do you like to explore and express yourself through writing? If so, you’re a ‘real’ writer. That’s the generous thing to say. It’s the same kind of generosity that the great journalist I.F. Stone once showed to me, when I introduced myself at a conference with “Hi, I’m Larry Bush, an aspiring writer.” His reply: “Hi, I’m Izzy Stone, an aspiring writer.”

But Izzy wasn’t merely aspiring — he’d earned a large audience and a place in history.

I guess I’m less generous in my evaluations of myself than I am toward other writers and artists — or perhaps I’m egotistical enough to compare myself to high-ranking achievers rather than the unpublished ones. Yes, I have been fortunate enough to have a bunch of my books published, but most of my publishers have been minuscule outfits with no publicity resources, so my books have typically sold between 200 and 1,000 copies. And sure, I’ve had the chance, while editing Jewish Currents for nearly two decades, to see a good deal of my visual art in print (and lots of readers boosted my work with contributions that I interpreted as support for both me and the institution) — yet my work with Jewish Currents was so time-consuming that I never had the chance to pursue other, larger outlets for my creative work.

And now, at age 71, I don’t really want to be bothered trying. Instead, I’ve created my website.

There’s a third endeavor represented at the site, my music, which has been very instructive to me about creativity and ambition. I’ve been playing guitar since I’m eight years old, but I’ve never thought of myself as a professional or pursued music with the rigor that professionalism requires. For the past decade, however, and especially since my retirement four years ago, I’ve been exploring jazz, playing it a lot, and composing music and writing songs. I’ve become a much, much better guitarist than I ever was, mostly because I’m thoroughly enjoying it, so I can get into a groove instead of stumbling over my own frustrations. Rather than focusing on what I can’t do (sing like Tony Bennett, play like Buddy Guy), I’ve learned to rejoice in what I can do, in the sheer pleasure of being able to play, arrange, interpret, and sing these fabulous songs from the American Songbook. Having no professional ambitions has released me into the joy of the art itself.

Well, after all this navel-gazing, I hope you’ll explore the Babushkin’s Playhouse site. If so, you’ll find a category called “Weekly C-Notes.” These are 100-word writings that I produce every Wednesday and circulate to six other people (each of us produces 100 words on a particular day of the week). Below you’ll find three of my C-Notes that suit ALTE’s theme of “getting old together.” Maybe you’ll be moved by them and think well of me. Or maybe you’ll think — him again? Genug! (Enough!)

By the way, if you are in a 100-word writing group, or are otherwise experimenting with the form, please send me a couple of your favorites (you can contact me via the website, ah-ha!) and help me get started on one of interactive elements of Babushkin’s Playhouse.

1.

THINGS I HAVEN’T YET SAID TO MY GRANDSON

There is no Santa Claus. I’m sorry. But YOU can be Santa Claus. Everyone can be Santa Claus. 

Your grandmother IS Santa Claus.

Your mother wants you to be polite. Okay. But the goal is to be free, and kind.

Your mother and father have cried a lot. That doesn’t mean you have to cry a lot.

If you laugh when someone beats you at Candyland, you’ll know you’re in love.

Your grandparents’ apartment will be a great place to get high.

Remember me when you’re having fun.

Be yourself — you’re wonderful.

2.

My house is getting cozier by the day. The houseplants are knitting flowers and laughing through the window at the snow. Our pantry and cabinets make room for new items like passengers in a subway car. Our live-traps are catching mice (o, those little hands); we carry them to the top of the driveway and they scamper back in our footsteps. Yesterday I hung a 30x40” photo of an enormous storm cloud. Unframed, it transformed the living room into a photographer’s loft. The room buzzed, spun, and made its adjustments.

Our bedroom is warm and waiting. What a pretty quilt!

3.

LOW TIDE

I have never found a bathing suit that suits me

My skin pale and mottled    my legs stained by the years

I regret the loss of those one-piece swimsuits

from the Roaring Twenties 

(That’s me wearing stripes and sporting a handlebar)

I regret the advent of high-cut styles

that turn women’s legs into daggers.

(That’s me carrying her on my shoulders into the churning surf)

And now   off-season

That’s me walking the beach at low tide

in shades, a straw hat,

and old seersucker trousers

that are rolled to the knee

and soggy with sand