89. Translating the Imagination – Michelle Ross
What if we viewed writing as an act of translation—not from Spanish to English, but from the abstract realm of our imaginations to the concrete realm of the page?
When I was a young violinist working on a Beethoven Sonata, a mentor of mine suggested, “This phrase might not be exactly what Beethoven heard. Perhaps it’s only as close as he could get to writing it down.”
Years later I came across the foreword to Edith Grossman’s translation of Don Quixote, where she writes, “this is the essential challenge in translation: hearing, in the most profound way I can, the text in Spanish and discovering the voice to say (I mean, to write) the text again in English.” I was transfixed by the idea of Grossman “listening” and searching for the meaning behind Cervantes’s text. As a translator, she is swimming between two languages, two modes of communication. What I took from this is that the essence of the text exists beyond the boundary of the specific language. (!)
If we follow this further, perhaps as writers we can imagine ourselves as translators for our own ideas, from the mind to the paper. What if we viewed writing as an act of translation—not from Spanish to English, but from the abstract realm of our imaginations to the concrete realm of the page?
This way of thinking helped release me creatively—when I perform, but even more so when I compose. I often improvise on the piano, which is not my instrument, and I record the improvisations. I have learned to follow the will of the music before I try to define it. This way of thinking also freed my prose: I have learned to marvel at the blank page in front of me, leaning into the space between the page and the pen, the shadow created by my arm, the curious journey of my thoughts searching for their form.
Can you imagine that your idea or gesture for today is within your mind, waiting, searching for you? How closely can you listen to the essence of your idea, and discover the voice(s) that will carry it to your audience, or perhaps, just to yourself?
– Michelle Ross
Prompt:
Observe your own imagination, as if traveling in a foreign land, taking in the sounds, sights and smells. Delight in the gap between experiencing and understanding. Become aware of the distance between your imagination and the real world. Now think of yourself as a translator, and begin to transpose whatever appeared in your imagination.
Perhaps your words today will look incomplete. Try to observe objectively, searching for the meaning behind the words, rather than judging their finality.
Alayna Weiss
Location: Indiana
About: I am no avid writer but deeply admire the art. I would love to hone my skills to be able to express my unique voice through writing. I am working on writing more, but sometimes the pressure to write erases all I have to write about- this was the inspiration for this journal entry.
Age: 23
It’s a pretty expansive landscape, my imagination.There are a lot of little things to be observed along the way, but the observable things are elusive. It’s the opposite of schrodinger's cat. When my thoughts and observations sense no looming threat to be drawn in to the real world, they are free to multiply and divide. Happily, they do handstands and backflips at lightning speeds. When not so jovial, they spin round and round in circles, drilling holes into the ground. However, when I come to investigate, to see what’s in the box, to bring them into the real world, the thoughts and observations scram.
Just minutes before, my imagination was running rampant. Now, I seem to be in the dark about what was going on. Forget about being able to jot down the thoughts and observations coherently, even jotting them down objectively seems to be a chore. The landscape becomes flat and there becomes nothing to report on. Interesting rock formations, grassy rolling hills, soft creeks, or rushing rivers are no where to be found. It’s clear that this breed of thoughts and observations do not enjoy being thrust into the real world.
Instead, a gentle coaxing seems to be much more successful. The thoughts and observations were just bouncing around the landscape or drilling holes in the ground, surely they must have left some sort of mark? And from this angle, it’s much easier to see. The happy dance of my thoughts and observations have created valleys in the land- paving the way for rolling hills. Over time, a small creek may run through these hills, kickstarting a new ecosystem. From my darker thoughts and observations, holes were in fact dug. These holes provide homes for a whole host of grateful creatures, from insects to mammals. With a gentler view, the expansive landscape isn’t so bleak. It’s teeming with potential and boundless diversity.
Alyson Indrunas
Location: Bellingham, WA
About: I live in Northwest Washington State where I love to write, read, and ride bikes. Prior to the pandemic, I traveled to over 125 colleges and universities in 18 states for work in two years. I was drawn to the question of "what chases me" and how this inspired me to try watercolor painting during a time when I'm grateful to be home.
Age: 46
Perfectly Imperfect
“Nobody sees a flower really; it is so small. We haven't time, and to see takes time - like to have a friend takes time.” ~Georgia O’Keefe
Teachers in online videos use phrases like perfectly imperfectly, loosely connected, ever-changing, uncontrollable pigment, multiple-perspectives, and negative space.
I click pause.
Dip the brush into the water. Swirl it around in the clear mason jar that used to hold apricot preserves made by a friend I have not seen in person in three months. I dab the brush into the primary color yellow. Watch the hairs soak up the pigment, and then I drag it on the paper in one long arc that will become a Black-eyed Susan I’m learning to paint. Finally. After all these years of waiting until I have studio space, I’ve decided to use our dining room table to paint.
During this time of complete change in our lives as we live through a pandemic, the idea of what it’s like to paint watercolor has chased me. When I first saw a Covid-19 cell in January, I thought it looked like a watercolor painting. On a normal day (as if we have them anymore) when people would ask me what I do as a creative person, I’d say I’m a writer.
Words, however, have left me. Every time I try to write, I lose the thread. Drop the stitch.
Scrolling through social media one day, I watched a process video of a watercolor artist, and I thought back to all of the times I travelled to art museums. I’d always pause longer on watercolor paintings. Prior to all of this, I used to travel for a living, and my last trip to New York City, I went to the MOMA alone. I got there right when it opened, and I remember speed walking to a few paintings I wanted to be with before the crowds gathered. Then I spent hours walking around being among the tourists, the students on school trips, elderly people in travel groups. I sat with strangers, walked and bumped into people as I kept my eyes on the paintings sculptures. When I stumbled upon Georgia O’Keefe’s Evening Star No. III, I stood and looked at the texture created by water in her painting. Where the color gathered. Where pigment bloomed into shape. When I think back to that day, alone in New York City yet surrounded by people, I remember thinking about how I would love to learn how to paint using watercolor pigment. This is the idea that has chased me.
Here I am.
I’ve taken up the study of watercolor as a creative outlet that avoids words. I knit while we watch TV and films, so I wanted to keep the textile arts to the time that I’m focused on the screen. For less than thirty dollars, I was able to get set up with a kit to watercolor.
The narrative of how to paint is very much like the teaching of writing, which I no longer do. A perfectly imperfect new practice that I didn’t know I desperately needed. Almost a month ago, I deleted my Facebook, I stopped going to Twitter during my breaks, and I’ve limited the time I’m on Instagram to fifteen minutes a day. Now that I’m not traveling for work, I thought I should lighten this digital footprint of mine, and pause my use of these platforms that really don’t spark joy in the endless horror that is America. I love Insta--I’m not going to lie--the concise captions and easy scroll of lovely photos. When I have let myself go beyond the fifteen minutes, I watch demos of people painting with watercolor. What a world I’ve discovered! Oh, so much to see that has nothing to do with the world.
I’m also home to see my little garden grow for the first time in four years since I’ve moved to this condo. I’ve been able to water, plant, propagate, and sit next to the flowers that are growing near my windows. Nearby frogs have kept me awake at night because they are so loud. I’ve seen the moon grow full from my home office window for six months straight. Odd to be home for so many days in a row.
I haven’t purchased a plane ticket in six months, and I have no plans to go anywhere. Unlike a lot of people I know, who seem fine with going to public spaces, I’m quite horrified by the politicization of mask wearing. I prefer not to know which side my neighbors are on, and one of the main activities people share (at least in my circles) is getting together for a socially-distanced drink. Well, that’s not as thrilling to me as it used to be (a story for another day). Rather than seeing this moment as limiting what I can do, I’ve decided to take up some activities that I’ve wanted to do some time but haven’t. Like meal planning where we cook stuff from scratch, freeze it, and think carefully about what’s in the pantry. I’ve been baking more, trying out new recipes, and using this time to be more in my head without worrying about the future. I’ve become a daily tea drinker where I sit down and read a chapter while I sip my tea collection. Over the years, I’ve collected tea bags from places I’ve traveled or I’ve purchased new teas before I finished the old boxes, and now I’m drinking that supply down. I’ve splurged on one fancy tea because it’s been years since I’ve had it.
Drinking this new tea and watching leaves steep, a memory came to me from when I worked at a health food store as a cashier and we got to purchase damaged packages for 10 cents. A butcher and I tell one another about new items. A flirty coworker game. I haven’t thought of him in years. His job was so gory and horrid; his apron was always bloody but he’d come through my line to buy a snack and let me know he put away a box of tea for me from the damaged pile. We made small talk on work breaks. He was a watercolor painter married to a woman I never met. I never saw his paintings, but I liked to listen to him describe his studio.
If only I had met you five years ago, he said to me on my last day at the store, my life would be different. I smiled. Lied. Said I’m sure mine would be different too. I never saw him again, but I do remember how much we loved that expensive tea. How we couldn’t justify two hours of work for that purchase unless it was in the Damaged Ten Cent Pile. I spend so much money on watercolor brushes, I remember him saying. The Watercoloring Hot Butcher, I called him in my mind.
Memories float, run, as days bleed into one day and then to the next.
When I lived in California, there were always plein air watercolor painters on the trails in Point Reyes National Seashore where I liked to hike. I didn’t mind them taking up space on the trail when I hiked by. They were always quiet contemplative people standing next to their eiseles, and I would hike the trail to the coast alone in the fog or the sunlight. One time when I was returning, I caught a view of one painting with a hiker in the field wearing a purple backpack--the color of my daypack. The hiker's backpack bled into a field of orange poppies, and the painter was shaping tiny lines of tall grass when I approached. Looks like your aura, he said without stopping his grass strokes, acknowledging me looking at his painting without meeting my eyes. Could just be the lighting I said, uncomfortable that he could see something I could not.
Whether I’m drawn to experience what I’ve always admired in others' work or if I’m chased by this idea I can’t let go, I’m not sure. I’m on my 42nd day of trying to watercolor, and sometimes memories float to the surface, but most of the time I don’t think about anything. I love the color of the paint. The way the color runs. How the water leads the paint across the paper. The brush has a push and pull, and I’m not really sure I know what I’m doing, but I love how I feel while I’m trying. Painting flowers as a way to take a break from the words feels like the right thing to do right now. I’ll come back to writing, but for now, I make lines and circles that resemble flowers. Perfectly imperfect.
Flynn
Location: Bellingham, WA
About: I live in Northwest Washington State where I love to write, read, and ride bikes. Prior to the pandemic, I traveled to over 125 colleges and universities in 18 states for work in two years. I was drawn to the question of "what chases me" and how this inspired me to try watercolor painting during a time when I'm grateful to be home.
Age: 46
I make it up as I go along: A 25-cent tour inside a small piece of my imagination, or....
89: You Really Can't See The Whole Thing In Just One Day
Tour Members:
Please, for your safety, stay on the path at all times, and for all things holy DO NOT reach across the velvet ropes. We will not be held responsible for any harm that may result from you leaving the path, or reaching over the velvet ropes.
Also, please do not touch any part of the display unless specifically asked to, a request that will most likely be whispered directly into your ear.
😉😉
We will begin our tour down the Hall of Dirty Words, which funnels us into and through the Vestibule of Filthy Thoughts. That deposits us at the Footlocker of Perverted Notions, which you will see is stenciled with the words, "Let's not pretend it doesn't exist." Though the footlocker is compact, you can tell it's been, well, around the world.
Quite a few times.
....Moving right along....
Exit through the doors at the end of the hall, and into the parking lot.
We will walk across the parking lot to The Factory of Thoughts building. Once inside The Factory you must wear the safety helmet, goggles, and ear protection that we have provided you with. There will be no exceptions. The factory isn't always loud, but that can change suddenly, and, should that happen, the volume can become instantly uncomfortable. Watch your head as you walk through. You do not want to get hit by a very dangerous and rapidly-moving, low-flying thought, which often appear quickly and out of nowhere.
The Factory is up and running all the time, 24/7/365. It doesn't stop producing Thoughts. All roads lead into and out of the factory. It doesn't close. Not Ever. Never.
As we walk briskly through the factory, you will see an enormous flock of sheep. They are only here to be counted. They are not to be used for food or clothing.
We will exit The Factory of Thoughts, and cross the street to the sign that says "Stade de Bizarrerie." (The Stadium of Weirdness). 🏟️
It's a stadium. It's weird. All of the events there are sold out, all the time, to the only season ticket holder, Flynn. Sometimes he invites his friends into the Stade de Bizarrerie. Sometimes they're able to handle the entire event, but they often just run away screaming. Go figure.
Let's refresh ourselves at The Bar.
Once the main hangout, the fully-stocked bar is now used only for special occasions.
(Or the rare, odd drinking binge, whichever comes first.)
The Jukebox building. Filled with tunes from decades of listening to everything he could sink his ears into. The jukebox is always on, like JFK's eternal flame. Music is piped into all of the other buildings, again, all the time. The music doesn't stop.
The Arena. This is where Flynn's inner demons do battle. Events are held spontaneously, and, usually on a daily basis. You will also notice an indoor steeplechase track that exits the arena. Flynn knows all too well: some demons you fight, others you simply run like hell from.
On the other side of this building is The Grand Library of Seemingly Infinite Knowledge. If you look closely, you'll see it's mostly just a facade. The whole building is propped up by Google and weighed down by a set of old encyclopedias. And a few vintage Guitar Player magazines.
Exit through the doors at the end of the vestibule. As you exit, note The Impenetrable Box of Secrets on your left. It has a slot, but that's it. Once a secret goes in, it stays there. It is knowledge that doesn't leave the building. Next to it, you will see in the glass case, a little black book.
That's *THE* little black book. Appointments are no longer being accepted.
(The glass case is only to be broken into in case of emergency. God forbid.)
We will end this portion of our tour today at the mouth of the river of Peace, Love, and Balance, Forever. Please take note that this river flows both ways; what you put into it will eventually come back to you.
Pat Taylor
Location: Precipice Valley, British Columbia, Canada
About: Violinist Michelle Ross’s Day 89 prompt resonated within me like the elusive musical note or written word that my imagination likes to play hide and seek with on a daily basis. Is it elusive or illusive - can it be both?
Age: 71
Violinist Michelle Ross’s Day 89 prompt resonated within me like the elusive musical note or written word that my imagination likes to play hide and seek with on a daily basis. Is it elusive or illusive - can it be both?
A songwriter friend of mine, Michael Booth Palmer, once told me he taught himself to play the piano because his guitar strings could not always duplicate or translate the melodies streaming live inside his head when he was writing a new song.
As a writer, I have often felt, as cliché as it sounds, that I am only the “connector” or translator between the wordless world and the printed world. Vocabulary storage can limit the expression of my imagination. Yet, I resist demanding the expansion, the all-inclusiveness of the intellectual, in fear that I will lose the connection to my audience base - those people who feel things rather than intellectualize them - if that makes any sense? As Michelle states, “How closely can you listen to the essence of your idea, and discover the voice(s) that will carry it to your audience, or perhaps, just to yourself.”
During the first few years of our marriage I began to “read and listen” to the different styles of communication my husband and I used to connect with our audiences. I was wont to say that he was PBS and I was Love Boat. Labels can be dangerously inaccurate or limiting in their scope, yet this description of us comforted me through times of conflict. I did not have to be him, or think like him. I was not an ignoramus because I could not easily “hear” or “translate” my feelings or insights into the intellectual language that his brain cultivated as smoothly as he does his hay field or garden.
Over time, we both realized that the blend of our differences - the intellectual and the rom-com - has delivered us to a place that bridges the two worlds: the imaginary and the real, the concrete with the ephemeral, the science and the fantastical… therefore providing us the opportunity to step into each other’s head voice and heart world. Thus we discover the power of both, and this allows us to make changes in our perceptions and understandings, to evolve our consciousnesses and mindfulness. In a world that demands we listen and interpret a multitude of voices that presently need to be heard, recognized, and acknowledged, we must propel ourselves to make dramatic shifts in our individual “beingness” to embrace the world of “now”.
Listening to the silence between the thoughts, the fermata within a musical score, or the beats between the scripted words - knowing it exists (having experienced it fleetingly over the years) has me yearning, searching tenderly for that precious connection, the live-streamIng that is beyond rom-com or intellectual words or a musical notes. Soundless creativity. Art forms beyond expression. Yet, I know if I try too hard, it will not reveal itself to me. I will lose the ability to connect, to translate. So, today, as I find the vocabulary, the language to respond to Michelle Ross’s prompt, I fight the pressure to perform, to produce a response - that is forced, and therefore, for me inauthentic.
I will be curious to see/read how my fellow journallers interpret, translate and stream their responses, today - the intellectuals, the rom-coms and the natural blends. I am extremely grateful for all the profound brains that I get to dance with on a daily basis via The Isolation Journals 100-day challenge.
Thank you, Suleika, for inviting me to join your symphony of creative minds. My vocabulary has been expanding in spite of myself. I am still chasing rainbows, the magical bridge between the Earthly self and the Beyond. Wishing you continued ease and good health, my friend.