The Art Of Solitude
Still Point Arts Quarterly|Winter 2016

Solitude isn’t loneliness; it’s different. With solitude, you belong to yourself. With loneliness, you belong to no one.

Naomi Beth Wakan
The Art Of Solitude

My husband sings to me in bed the songs of his adolescence, downloaded on his MP3 player. I am struck by the frequency of the word “lonely” in their titles— “Mr. Lonely,” “Lonely Boy,” “Only the Lonely,” “Lonely Street,” “Never Knew Lonely,” “Lonely Teardrops,” “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” I would have thought it is the present time, with folks adhered to Facebook and Twitter, their opposing thumbs brought into full play on iPhones and iPods, for which the word “loneliness” would be most applicable. I am innocent of these new methods and outlets for communication, and I often wonder in amazement what people find to tell each other all day long. Isn’t all that frantic Tweeting and Facebooking sandbagging their own loneliness? Isn’t the present day the time of the alienated?

When I think of “lonely” in the traditional arts, I think immediately of Edward Hopper.

Although Hopper complained that “The loneliness thing is overdone,” to me he always seems to be the outsider, the observer observing the marginal, thus doubling the feeling of loneliness when we look at his canvases. It’s the seeming inability of people to communicate that, for me, is the essence of his paintings. Take his painting Sun in an Empty Room, which seems to reflect a deep separateness. About that painting Hopper commented, “I’m after me.” Surely that is the statement of loneliness. C. S. Lewis said, “We are born helpless. As soon as we are fully conscious, we discover loneliness. We need others physically, emotionally, intellectually; we need them if we are to know anything, even ourselves.” Perhaps this is what Hopper was trying to express.

Denne historien er fra Winter 2016-utgaven av Still Point Arts Quarterly.

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Denne historien er fra Winter 2016-utgaven av Still Point Arts Quarterly.

Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.

FLERE HISTORIER FRA STILL POINT ARTS QUARTERLYSe alt
Standing In The Stream
Still Point Arts Quarterly

Standing In The Stream

I had also become enamored with the beauty of a man — it was always a man — standing in a rushing stream about mid-thigh, sunlight winking off the whitewater, casting nearly in slow-motion, over and over again, the long thin line whipping back and forth, catching the light, before barely alighting atop the water.

time-read
10+ mins  |
Spring 2017
The Old Barn
Still Point Arts Quarterly

The Old Barn

The photograph above, by Jeffrey Stoner, is part of Still Point Art Gallery’s current exhibition, Solitude (see more images from this show on the previous pages).

time-read
8 mins  |
Winter 2016
Sea Foam And Clyde
Still Point Arts Quarterly

Sea Foam And Clyde

Behind the house he hears the rustling of grasses that shine when the wind blows. The blades lift and turn and catch the sun and glitter like tinsel. He stands and sees the house. If you squint maybe it does look like sea foam.

time-read
7 mins  |
Spring 2017
The Restaurant De La Sirène At Asnières
Still Point Arts Quarterly

The Restaurant De La Sirène At Asnières

The Restaurant de la Sirène at Asnières is crumbling; you can see it clearly when you stand up close, the bricks are split with age, the boards are warped with weather like the damaged spine of an old man. The building is a decaying, moldy monument to the men who look upon it.

time-read
8 mins  |
Spring 2017
The Art Of Solitude
Still Point Arts Quarterly

The Art Of Solitude

Solitude isn’t loneliness; it’s different. With solitude, you belong to yourself. With loneliness, you belong to no one.

time-read
7 mins  |
Winter 2016
Wendy's Room
Still Point Arts Quarterly

Wendy's Room

If sleep, a noise could reach in. Drag you out. Not sleep. No noise. No silence even. All walls sealed. Unconsciousness — the word she couldn’t think of twelve years ago. Except here she was. The mind watching itself. And wasn’t that the definition of consciousness? An ultramarine impasto. As if she knew brushstrokes. Odd, because in this life, Wendy Kochman had been an amateur violist. A failed academic and a mother. Never a painter.

time-read
9 mins  |
Winter 2016
On Throwing Things Away
Still Point Arts Quarterly

On Throwing Things Away

I will work until my mind finds peace, even if that means I will work for a very long time.

time-read
5 mins  |
Winter 2016