A Search for

"More and more he will be governed by what others want him to do, thus increasingly falling prey to conformism."  -Viktor E. Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

 

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Is permanence possible, and can it take form, in a transitory existence?  Most will argue no.  I am convinced otherwise.  While elusive, permanence does exist, but it is only present in the deepest recess of the human experience: the state of assured meaning——that is, purpose.  

 

To know our purpose in life——to pursue meaningful work in spite of its hardships and suffering——is to have permanence in an ever changing landscape.  It is what courses through our finite bodies to move us beyond ourselves.  With this knowledge, we are bound to a higher something.  As a result, our fleeting condition is given a permanence that transcends time and space.

 

I met my purpose many autumns ago.  Yet, I spent the greater portion of the last two years attempting to trade in its very truth for a life of practicality, for that which is considered conventional and socially acceptable for a thirty-something-year-old.  

There is an insidious nature to conformity.  As someone who is much too stubborn and headstrong, it seemed my purpose and values were safe from the impact of external noise.  It was not until my desire for meaning over financial security was being challenged consistently that I found myself confronted with doubts——doubts that started off inconspicuously small, but gradually grew to an obstructive size.  Critics purported my work as a painter was impractical and short of prestige.  Instead, they insisted on the importance of what I had long deemed empty and vapid: monetary accrual, socioeconomic status, and running in the "right" circles.

 

Unfortunately, over time, I——as well as my work——became affected by the unsolicited advice.

 

This wolf, a stealthy predator, had found its way into the sheep pen. 

 

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Society's ill-fitted, one-size-for-all ideology pressures us to renounce dissenting behavior and harms the outliers who swim against the current——the individuals who consciously choose meaning over a life of material stature.  At birth, we are handed a timeline for the milestones that must be reached at each age.  To stray from it is to subject oneself to continual scrutiny and shame.

 

For the past two years, I have struggled to drown out the voices of the naysayers, of those determined to kill the better part of me——the only part of me I have ever known to be true.  I lost several battles in the process and suffered a high degree of debilitation.  However, as I learned from Viktor E. Frankl, meaning is found in suffering, too.

 

* * *

It was a Friday in early October.  The year was 2010.  I was twenty-six, and it was my birthday.  The highly anticipated exhibition, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Cézanne and Beyond: Post-Impressionist Masterpieces from the Musée d’Orsay, which I waited well over a year to see, was finally open to the public.  I spent that afternoon with Vincent at the de Young.  

 

Seven of Vincent's paintings were on display.  I must have stood in front of Bedroom at Arles (1889) for an hour.  Seeing his actual brushstrokes from 120 years ago in person was an experience I would not soon forget.  I was intent on taking in every minute detail.  What were you feeling when you painted your bedroom, Vincent?  I imagined him sitting on his bed, turning his head towards the window and peering out into the world.  I thought about him suffering for his purpose, for the very thing of which he was so certain, but which many mistook for far less.  And I remember standing there, a mere few feet from his painting, sharing an internal conversation with a man who lived and died a century before I was even born——the full impact of its resonance bringing me to tears. 

 

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How can anything be permanent when we are living in a constant state of impermanence?  How do I reconcile practicality and expectations with meaning and the responsibility of fulfilling a purpose so few understand?  I am not sure.  Answers come and go for me.  Yet, amid the uncertainty, I do know this much: poorer my life would be without art and its enriching experiences, and poorer this world would be had Vincent ignored his life's calling——had he listened to his critics, taken the practical path, and done what was easier. 

There is a reason painting cuts me as deep as it does and why the need to continue painting is unrelenting: it is both the means and the end to my existence.  Painting is the vehicle by which I can reach and serve others——those who are yearning for resonance and connection, those who are searching for the greater meaning in their own lives.  Sharing hope, even the smallest grain of it, with my fellow humans has been the driving force behind this impractical journey from the very beginning.  It is what gives my days meaning, and it is what provides a sense of permanence in a world that is ever fleeting.

-OH