Dear Little Snow Person

My writing residency at the Vermont Studio Center ended yesterday and I made the long drive back home to La Belle Farm.

But before I left--closing up my cabin, I found that the snow person the artist Janel Schultz placed on my steps had completely melted. Although, I will say, we were able to rescue the little scarf and the carrot nose—melted, mushy, but recognizable. It was a pleasure and a sorrow to witness the snow person transform from a perfect creation--fresh snow, icy, pristine, jaunty, happy--to a mysterious-looking and somewhat sad-looking puddle among the gravel on my steps before completely disappearing.

This is the fate of every snow person. And, I've never heard one snow person rail against the injustice of it all. I suppose this is because this melting is inevitable, and the fate of every living creature. And yet, we humans—we do rail against our fate. We call to the people we meet along the way and cry out--hey, you there! Look at me! Can't you see I'm melting! Please stop and say hello. I beg you! Notice my exquisite and heartbreaking beauty!

This is why we make art. We yearn to bring something into the world that will outlast us--whether it's a sculpture of David or a cave painting describing a successful hunt, or even a novel exploring the true meaning of life. All art is an announcement to the world that we were here. We lived during this time. We thought about things. We made our mark.

And yes, art is our bid for immortality.

Creative Friends--this desire for immortality is nothing to be ashamed of. You have every right to want your work to outlast you. Maybe it won't. Maybe it will. This is not the point. The question is this: will your desire be the thing that gets you into your studio every day, or onto your dance floor. Will it bring pencil to paper, will it get you to face down the canvas, the keyboard, the clay or the kiln? If so, then go ahead and believe you will never melt and you will last forever, dear Snow Person.

And maybe you will.

Love,

Jamie