Tangled: On Life & Great Art

My definition of "great art" could be deemed selfish. I define a great piece of art by my ability to see, however concise or abstract, my own experience in it. For example, I can detect the scent of my history in the painting "A View from the Window, on the Olcha" by Marc Chagall. I can read the confessions of my disparate selves in the book "The Golden Notebook" by Doris Lessing. I can confront both the desperations and deliciousness of my life in the films of Lars von Trier.

And I can unravel the loneliness and frustration, but also the benefits, of my existence in a song like "My Life" by Iris Dement. I'm feeling a bit defeated tonight, as the rains fall -- tidal -- on Boston, and Ms. Dement can reveal the secrets and commonality of just such a rain.


My life, it don't count for nothing.
When I look at this world, I feel so small.
My life, it's only a season:
A passing September that no one will recall.

But I gave joy to my mother.
And I made my lover smile.
And I can give comfort to my friends when they're hurting.
And I can make it seem better for a while.

My life, it's half the way traveled,
And still I have not found my way out of this night.
An' my life, it's tangled in wishes,
And so many things that just never turned out right.

But I gave joy to my mother.
And I made my lover smile.
And I can give comfort to my friends when they're hurting.
And I can make it seem better,
I can make it seem better,

I can make it seem better for a while.


Thanks, Iris.