| On
September 13th, Boston Globe arts reviewer Ed Siegel called me to ask
a question he was asking artists all over Boston: what is the role of
art in our present crisis? In that conversation I struggled to answer
the question, rambling, stuttering and wishing I had an answer. From my
ramblings, Ed was able to distill one idea: that art can help to humanize
us in the midst of a situation that seems inhuman.
As I often find in good interviews, the questions made me start looking
at my own life and work more closely.
I had just come home from touring Europe for the summer and had no concerts
in the U.S. until Sept. 22, when I’d planned to fly to Michigan for
a concert in the small town of Greenville, just outside Grand Rapids.
Boston was the last airport in the U.S. to open and even three days before
my flight to Greenville, I wasn’t sure whether I’d be driving
a rental car to Michigan, or whether my flight would actually take off.
After my flight time was changed several times by the airlines, I finally
got to the airport on the 20th. Once through the long baggage line, I
found myself feeling very, very sad in the airport, which seemed so big
and empty, even though I was in the smallest terminal. I wasn’t scared
to get on the plane, I just felt horribly sad. Life in Boston itself hadn’t
seemed so different since the 11th, which was in itself, disturbing. But
here the difference was profound. The place was empty.
On the plane, Midwest, the attendants and pilots did their best to act
normal. At lunch time, they brought our meals. The silverware was wrapped
in a linen napkin (no, I wasn’t in first class, Midwest is just a
classy airline). I opened the napkin and saw: a stainless steel fork,
a stainless steel spoon ... and a plastic knife.
That was the moment reality hit me. All the images, the fear and the unutterable
sadness flooded down on me and I burst into tears, and couldn’t stop
crying. The sense of unreality I’d felt for the past 9 days broke
and the tragedy hit me viscerally. For once, I knew it was OK to cry in
public, that no-one would come along nervously and say, “What’s
wrong?” Everyone knew what was wrong, and I supposed that the flight
attendants had seen many people in tears in the last few days. One of
them came by with a pack of kleenex and pressed it into my hand, then
left me alone to cry.
I stayed in Grand Rapids for two nights, meeting with the Ballet company
and the Symphony and dining with friends. The night before my concert
in Greenville, there was a big benefit concert on TV. Famous stars and
musicians were raising money for the victims of the attacks. I felt like
my own meager attempts to help were meaningless: the Red Cross didn’t
need more blood, and the people stranded at Boston Logan airport who we’d
offered to put up in our home had apparently found other lodging. We lit
candles and listened for hours to the radio feeling helpless, meaningless
and ineffectual. Now I felt even more useless: there was no way I could
help in the kind of big way these musicians on TV were helping and I felt
like a failure as an artist, a meaningless drop in an infinitesimal bucket.
On the way to my concert, I thought that I couldn’t be the only one
feeling that way. Probably most of the people in the little town of Greenville
felt just as ineffectual and wanted to help just as much as I did. I decided
I could be a conduit for help by giving 50% of the money from my CD sales
that night to the American Red Cross. But I was embarrassed about how
to tell the audience that and uncertain how to do it practically. I decided
I simply had to overcome my embarrassment, because I really needed to
help -- and I would work out the practicals later. Otherwise I was making
myself ever more a victim of the violence.
When I got to Greenville, I discovered that the entire town was planning
a big fundraising bazaar for the coming Thursday, to benefit the American
Red Cross, and I realized that the money from my CDs could be part of
that. I could simply give it to the mayor (who was at my concert) at the
end of the night. I didn’t have to be embarrassed by my desperation
to be helpful – this whole TOWN desperately wanted to be helpful
and I could just be part of that.
I started my show the way I often do: in darkness, with the song “Love
is on Your Side.” I hadn’t performed or thought of performing
since Sept. 11th, and as I started I heard myself singing as though from
far away:
Life
is never gonna break you,
No matter how hard you fall,
Life is never gonna break you,
Cause that’s not like life at all.
No matter how long you waited,
No matter how hard you tried,
Love is gonna take you, gonna wake you, gonna shake you,
Honey love is on your side.
I
felt I had never heard those words before and that I was singing to myself,
and I felt a surge of energy I hadn’t expected. I realized, shocked,
that for 11 days, from September 11th until I started that song, I had
been dead, emotionally. I hadn’t even known it. I also hadn’t
known that it would be my own singing that would bring me back to life,
that could make me human. When I’d spoken to Ed Siegel at the Boston
Globe about the job of the artist in a crisis, I was thinking of the role
the artist plays in helping the AUDIENCE connect with their emotions,
in how the artist is a conduit for the AUDIENCE’s connection with
their own humanity. I hadn’t realized that the audience helps the
ARTIST connect with their humanity - that the audience makes a place for
the artist to express their emotions. I hadn’t realized that my expression
is my own salvation.
So, please, no matter what your artform, no matter what you think is your
level of expertise -- get out there - play, sing, make a joyful noise,
or a sad noise, or an angry noise, but make YOUR noise. As artists, as
musicians, each one of us is an ambassador for humanity. You can bring
yourself back to life and you can help others come back to life. Truly,
love IS on our side.
Deborah Henson-Conant (Sept. 25, 2001)
|