The Art Of Dying
Life lessons from Peter Schjeldhal on creativity, mortality, inspiration, curiosity, reflection, art, writing, experience and failure.
I don’t know much about dying. What I do know is limited to dim-lit hospital rooms, greying sunlight between soft rattling venetian blinds, masked-face nurses and deep, guttural cries of pain. It’s limited to the foreign and illogical sensation of not being able to see a person again, of not being able to say goodbye.
I find myself thinking about death periodically, reminding myself of it in one way or another with a frequency that is I imagine, hopelessly human. In the words of the late great artist, Virgil Abloh, ‘the deadline is the greatest inspiration,’ and, in similar sentiment, what is death but the final deadline?
I was mesmerised when I first read Peter Schjeldhal’s piece in the New Yorker entitled “The Art Of Dying’; the stories recounted provided for a train journey that became an enchantment of words that concocted images which spoke to me on a deep level. The detail within the stories, the sheer variety of a life lived, provided me with a sentiment that ‘reality [truly] is greater than fiction.’
The British countryside wish-washing passed my window blended into a coloured painting that wove together the old and new, the sunlight shone brighter that day than before. I was surprised to find myself nearing my stop, eyes still eagerly zigzagging across the screen, swallowing up a dying man’s words. I tore myself away from it finally and then found myself picking it back up again as soon as I could. In fact, I’ve found myself coming back to the article several times since I last read it, eyebrows raised in awe, lips forming into a smile, thoughts far and reflective in mixed emotion as I journey through the fare of his words. There is something wonderfully human about it all. Even the one-liners are enough to elicit intrigue.
“Swatted a fly the other day and thought, Outlived you.”
I should start by saying that I can, in no way, outshine the sheer brilliance that can be found in the article itself. The effortless competence with which Peter writes is the difference between a Picasso painting and my own clumsy hand, blundering boiled streaks of watercolour across a sorry canvas. It’s simply in a league of its own. Neither will I attempt to summarise the life of Peter Schjeldhal in any way. No matter how many words I write, I will inevitably miss the mark. What I will do is outline what the article ignited in me, and how I think it relates to us creative folk who choose to read it. Knowing how to die, can tell us a lot about how to live, and a life well lived is the greatest muse for any creative undertaking.
Peter was most well-known as a prolific art critic. Even though art criticism is not strictly art itself, I believe Peter embodied all of the sentiment and complexity of ‘the art life.’
“To limber your sensibility, stalk the aesthetic everywhere: cracks in a sidewalk, people’s ways of walking. The aesthetic isn’t bounded by art, which merely concentrates it for efficient consumption. If you can’t put a mental frame around, and relish, the accidental aspect of a street or a person, or really of anything, you will respond to art only sluggishly.”
‘You will respond to art only sluggishly,’ and create so too, if I may add. Observing the world with curiosity is paramount to the disposition of the artist. To be a writer, a painter or a filmmaker, or to be competent in any kind of creative practice one must be sincerely interested in people. One must love people, and be genuinely fascinated by who they are and the world they live in.
Curiosity, I believe, is a key ingredient in the disposition of the artist. Without it, life becomes bland and dull, numbing the senses so far as to get us to do away with our own ‘inner child.’ Place a child in any environment and the most ordinary of objects become characters in the most fantastical of imaginative realities. What is art but a suspension of disbelief? Consuming, or creating art requires an imaginative spirit, it requires a showing up to the world with an inquisitive demeanour that promises no answers but elicits always greater questions. To love the questions themselves, that is the beauty of curiosity.
“I was a kid crazy about language and an omnivorous reader. At breakfast, I’d pore over every word on a cereal box as if it were holy writ. The first poem I remember writing was at a class picnic on the last day of sixth grade. I lay back on the grass, looking up. A hawk soared overhead. This wasn’t unusual, but it gave me an odd feeling. I rolled over and wrote what I knew was a poem because it looked like one. All I recall of it is a chorus: “Winged avenger from the skies!”
Our childhood and teenage years are a conglomerate pit of recurring themes, one-off absurdities, embarrassments, trials and tribulations, mishaps and tragedies from which to draw inspiration. If you’re ever unsure of what to create, begin pulling at the never-ending string that circles itself around the unresolved remnants of your upbringing. You will find that which touches you and that which you rather wouldn’t touch, yet nevertheless elicits a response of genuine truth within you. In the dazed and confused days of youth, ideals of reinvention are common, ignorance is bliss.
Peter began writing art criticism in 1965 in ‘almost pristine ignorance,’ a type of ignorance that can be useful in getting us over the line to start creating. It reminds me of a friend of mine, a voracious reader with a sharp mind, someone who talks with comic exuberance and clearly shows signs of a well-considered point of view. Multiple times I’ve pressed him to write, whether fiction or non-fiction, and he always finds another way to brush me off. At the core of his unwillingness to create, lies an insecurity on what to write about. It is hardly surprising that creating is easier with an inflated sense of self-importance, believing that what you create is important enough for others to consume can facilitate the process itself. And yet, who alive can write better about your own experience?
“I discovered that I was the world’s leading expert in one thing: my experience. Most of what I know in a scholarly way about art I learned on deadlines, to sound as if I knew what I was talking about—as, little by little, I did. Educating yourself in public is painful, but the lessons stick.”
In hindsight, failures are our greatest teachers. Theorising and talking about doing something is one thing, reading books and studying is another, yet putting into action, exposing yourself and risking a fall flat on your face, is the fastest way to improve. ‘Fail and fail fast,’ is a method of increasing our speed towards success, a kind of crash-course conduit propelling us towards our goals.
And yet, what’s the rush of getting towards where you’d like to go?
‘Impatience is arguing with reality,’ a lesson from Rick Rubin’s ‘The Creative Act,’ brilliantly summarised by
in his latest Substack. Perhaps arriving at your self-imagined destination of fortune and success is not as rosy as you’ve made it out to be. Perhaps there is value to be found in the ordinary, ‘less successful’ moments of today, wherever you find yourself.“Advice to aspiring youth: in New York, the years that you spend as a nobody are painful but golden, because no one bothers to lie to you. The moment you’re a somebody, you have heard your last truth. Everyone will try to spin you—as they should, with careers to think of. For about a dozen years, I hung out, drank, and slept with artists who didn’t take me seriously. I observed, heard, overheard, and absorbed a great deal.”
Immersed in the final words of Peter’s article, I find myself walking slower during my commute home. I pause by a ledge and ponder for a moment on the words that echo around my mind. The sun has begun to set over London, the skyline back-lit, silhouetted, needle-thin cranes tower over half-built dreams of real estate. I wonder how many times I have seen such a view, how many times I will be able to see it again.
As I search for a closing sentiment with which to conclude the ‘art of dying’ I can’t help but consider that death may feel just like this. No convenient time to go, no great time to jet off, ‘playing the Dying Man (Enter left. Exit trapdoor)’ — we all depart when our time comes. It’s the hidden view beyond the mountains, the unexpected cliff drop obscured beyond the ridge, waiting to surprise us when we least expect it.
Tomorrow is promised to no one. Yet the finite quality of time sweetens our blessings of today, of right here, of right now. Perhaps, that is all we need to value the gift of today, and all we require to honour it within our practice.
In Summary : as Artists, here’s what we can learn from considering our own mortality through the lens of ‘The Art Of Dying’.
Observing life in detail enhances artistic perception.
Draw inspiration from childhood for creative endeavours.
Overcome the fear of starting to create, even if it means beginning in ignorance.
Recognise personal experiences as unique and valuable for creative expression.
Accept failure as a part of creative growth.
Value the honest feedback received during early, less successful years.
Have I missed anything? Are there any lessons or mindsets you keep in mind which help you live a rich and fulfilling life? Let me know in the comments.
A final thought on how to live a full life, quoted by Michael Meade and shared by Sasha in this note below.
All of the quotes in the highlighted sections of the article are taken from the New Yorker’s piece by Peter Schjeldhal.
To check out more of Peter’s work, click here.
Hey Reader,
Thank you so much for reading.
If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
Mortality is a topic many people would rather not look at, but I think if considered in the right light, it can be the ultimate motivator for our creative work.
I’d love to hear about your practices within creative expression so please feel free to leave a comment or send a message. I’d love to learn about how and what you create.
As always I’d appreciate it if you can leave a ‘like’ and consider subscribing to enable more editions of Bluezone.
Buy me a coffee and support my work, and as always thank you for your time and attention.
Till next time,
-IL
Well I may have a unique perspective as I am dying of a degenerative brain disease, one that robs my psyche with chronic never ending pain, the other that is robbing my brain slowly of my intellectual capacity which used to be formidable. I started to paint watercolour a year ago to have something creative ( I used to be a marketing executive) as that’s what fed my soul, funny, my email I made for it was dying2paint@gmail.com . I found that when I painted, it helped me with pain so much as I would loose myself in the process. As for the art of dying, it can be sublime at times, not very much to worry about when you finally accept it, so I use that wonder-filled time to paint whatever and however the fuck I want, let them be judged after I die.
I also use the darker times to paint and as expected it creates a very difficult and different experience in the painting.
I only wish I had started painting years ago, but I was too busy with the art of living, that I missed the point.
Maybe I have a fever, or maybe not, but I felt a sense of elevation while reading your article. An out of body experience, seeing myself reading, as I consumed your words. I love the topics you touch on each week and the delicacy of your words. xx