Magnify

In November of last year, my love affair with New York City hit a bump. In my dozen or so previous visits, I had fully embraced the energy and excitement Manhattan had to offer, always leaving with similar feelings as I used to have as a graduate student in Georgia, when my California boyfriend and I had to part after precious time on the same coast. I would leave already thinking ahead to when I could return and explore more of its streets to the beat of a constant soundtrack of horns, engines and subways beneath my feet.

Last November, the city was its usual lively self with election energy tingling all over and holiday preparations underway. Snowflake lights were being hung, Christmas trees planted and window displays in transition as vendors sold hot dogs like any other day in the Big Apple. But me? I was on an entirely different wavelength, one humming to a tune of introspection and stillness. For the first time in my life I felt disconnected from one of my favorite cities in the world. It almost felt foreign, as if everyone moving briskly past me spoke a strange language.

I tried to get my Manhattan mojo bubbling, but no matter how many times I examined a map or pondered neighborhoods I’d never visited, I couldn’t shake the stillness inside me. I wanted to be quiet, drink coffee all afternoon and watch the world go by. I managed to have one day of big walks and gallery visits, but by the next day—my last full day—I had to force myself to leave the hotel. Even then, I didn’t make it very far before I finally surrendered and gave into my state of being. It happened suddenly, this submersion into the quiet sea inside me and was far easier than I’d imagined. I was at the New York Public Library, sitting in the cavernous main reading room at a long table with brass lamps, writing in my journal. After filling many pages, I wrote:

“All I want to do right now is go back to my hotel room and read. What if I gave myself permission to do that?”

Then, just like that, off I went. No hesitation, no agonizing over whether or not I should explore another museum; just calmly gathering my things and returning to a quiet room 22 floors above 57th Avenue to read all afternoon. Read! In New York City!

But that was the way it had to be, and I had one of the most delicious afternoons I had had in a long while in one of the most lively cities there is. Sometimes the time to be still arrives in a place where it makes no sense, where every part of your brain screams, “Rebel! Resist! Go out and move!” But no matter, the time to rest has arrived, and it has no interest in your geographical location.

As I read, wrote and daydreamed, I thought about the Henry Darger exhibit I had seen the day before at the American Folk Art Museum. Darger’s story is peculiar and intriguing. A Chicago janitor who lived in a rented apartment for more than 40 years, he left behind hundreds of paintings, collages and illustrations, along with more than 15,000 pages of a single-spaced manuscript about a group of seven child crusaders called “The Vivian Girls.” None of his work was discovered until just before his death, and it is only since his passing in 1973 that it has gained a wide audience. As his work and story continued to seep into my bones long after I left the museum, I realized that this newfound fascination with a man who was fiercely reclusive began at the same time I felt the urge to hide from the world in a city jam-packed with interesting things to do.

Thinking about all the ways Darger created a vast, complicated world in his imagination as he lived an intensely solitary life, I began pondering a question that had been plaguing me as 2008 began to wind down: Exactly what is it that I’m chasing? When it came to my work as an artist, writer and author of a brand new self-published book, most of the year felt like a magnificent journey, but every once in awhile an uneasy feeling of grasping at something too desperately kept creeping into my awareness. As I learned more details of Darger’s life and work, I wondered what I might be able to learn from him. Here was a man who went after nothing in terms of recognition, sales or shows. He had no interest in anything beyond his creative process, and yet since his work was made public, it has influenced and inspired a wide variety of exhibits, books and films.

It is impossible to know all the ways the work we do and the lives we live will impact the world. Maybe the kindness given to a stranger will give her the glimmer of light she needs to maintain her faith in humanity. Maybe an essay that exposes your wildest dream or deepest fear will touch someone on another part of the planet. Maybe the journals you are keeping today will be discovered 100 years from now, and your creations will inspire someone to write stories of their own. How are we to know how far our influence might reach? The things we do create a ripple effect we have no control over, and those ripples are capable of extending far beyond our personal experience, social circles and even our time on this Earth. We have no way of knowing all the details of our imprint on the world.

Knowing this, I am reminded how important it is to continue to let the quiet spaces expand as I march forward with whatever work I do as an artist and a writer. I don’t know all the places my creations are going to go; I can’t force them in one direction or another. There are times when we must heed the call within us to go out in the world and make ourselves known, but the times we are led to be still and float within the realms of our imaginations are perhaps even more potent. For it is in those slow, dreamy spaces that ideas are born and take their first leaps, that the energy we need to make them real is replenished.

No matter where we are, even in New York City.

Christine Mason Miller is a Santa Monica-based artist and writer with nearly 15 years of art, design and illustration experience. She is the author of Ordinary Sparkling Moments, a book that combines her artwork and writing about finding wisdom in everyday life, released in August 2008. Her website is christinemasonmiller.com.