Art has been magic
and should be.

The adornment of utilitarian design began as protection or sign. In response to dream or invocation, a man meant by adornment of his dwelling and person to take charge of himself and not leave to chance his relationship with man and mystery.

He meant to affect other men; he meant to affect the wind and rain and stars.

Later cultures have continued to attempt affection upon other men. They have called that attempt style.

(Any attempt to affect the wind or rain or stars is outside present cultural boundaries. One who actually attempts such will be judged insane.)

All peoples have always assumed a book can be judged by its cover. It can be.

 

Artmagic

may never appear un-contrived — and at its zenith should always appear so — but it never is.

The medicine man in Montana was bluejeaned; he wore western shirts and boots. He wore shades and his grey hair was close clipped — burred. He might have been any middle aged rancher. But a radiance of power always enveloped him, always glowed from him. He had been an Assiniboine medicine man for many years.

The dirty blond girl in a Gallup, New Mexico diner wore filthy, ill-fitting khaki pants, and a stained white shirt which was much too large for her. She wore shades, too; mirror shades. The medicine man had been a medicine man longer than she had been alive. Yet her power was equal to his and more sudden. Long practice does not produce magic; long practice does sometimes refine magic, but magic is innate.

The dirty blond girl probably never produced any work we might call art. Likely her power was too strong, too sudden. Likely it drove her to honky tonks and narcotics. Perhaps it drove her to holy roller religion; probably it killed her.

The medicine man produced neither painting nor sculpture. He acted in no plays. He did produce music, but it was not music of adornment; his drum beat, like all Indian drums, was of the bloodsurge. He did die dancing, but the dance which burst his heart was not ballet — it was a sundance.

Magic did once exist in what we now call the classical arts. But

magic affects.
Magic is
a maker of discomfort.

When magic is called classical and confined to chambers, when the vocabulary needed to approach it is no longer innate in those it would affect, then it leaves.

 

Long ago,
the magic left the chamber halls
and fled
to cowboys and to fieldhands.

 

Art has been magic; now it is composition and color-coordination. Painting and sculpture have been confined to galleries or to environments.

The artist crucified himself on a Volkswagen and (in a gallery) shot and wounded himself. He dared anyone to admire his texture, composition or color coordination.

But he may well have failed. He was written about in slick, commercial art magazines and in newspapers.

Magic affects. When it is powerful, the magician becomes hero. That which seemed irrational is accepted and absorbed. If at all possible, it becomes part of the cultural mainstream; if such is not possible, then the art becomes camp. That which is familiar loses the ability to affect.

 

WEARING WEALTH

I read once that mountain men, like Indians, wore their wealth. That phrase stayed with me and with passing time, its meaning has increased to me.

Wealth is an accumulation. To the artmagician, wealth is accumulated knowledge and the accumulated vestiges of knowledge — an accumulation of tested and proven means of affection.

Each piece of clothing, each piece of adornment is to be chosen by design, not chance. The face itself — all of the body — is chosen by design, not chance.

 

THE EDGE

Within the intuition of magic is an inborn drive to always remain on the edge.

The artmagician appears to be mad or, at least, very strange. He goes to the gas station or restaurant and eyes follow him. He is feared or admired; it matters little which. His passage leaves a backwash of affection.

A backwash of affection is not easily overlooked. It lends an illusion of power. The artist begins to suspect he is his own most important work. Perhaps he becomes a prince of cafe society, a denizen of trendy bars and talk shows. Then, almost inevitably, he finds his power begins to weaken.

Willing to trade true magic for the illusion of power — or even regular income — the artist codifies himself and becomes a caricature of his previous self.

Or, sometimes, fearing for his art, he retreats behind high fences, guard dogs and remote geography.

Sometimes such might preserve the artist’s art — and, in fact, might preserve his magic. The very madness of his retreat suggests the possibility of affection. But the retreat is likely little more than a further codification of style. There is danger the artist will wear his retreat the way his brothers might wear their acclaim.

In either case, the artist becomes hero.

The true artmagician defies codification; with innate and ruthless will, he remains on the edge.

The edge is within and without. The artmagician haunts the edges of cultures. He haunts the edge of his own culture; he haunts the edge of his own sanity.

 

The wind and rain
are the edge.

The true magician — the true artist —
ends on some lone mountain top,
and one night
he moves
the stars.

HE MOVES
THE VERY
STARS.

©Copyright Roxy Gordon 1980

Roxy Gordon publishes Artmagic, in which this piece originally appeared. For subscription information, write Roxy Gordon, 6200 Palo Pinto, Dallas, Texas 75214.