My father told me how a grave is meant to be
unassuming and however grand your life, once beneath the mound,
let go and make way for others. No cement or stone memorials,
let other graves replace yours until you but disappear, my first
lesson in mortality.
And so it is, my parents’ graves are thick with
grass shaded by kikar trees but without a headstone. I went once
to place flowers there and a brood of eager, well-fed goats
living in the graveyard rushed to devour the petals. Initial
anger gave way to laughter; the goats finally drove the point
in, as if through an art performance. Life is the greatest
artist and even the most radical work will always be a step
behind.
Iconoclasm is easy enough but worthwhile only if it makes room
for something new. Don’t we all wonder if the touted benefits of
globalization are based on the same old colonial charter? Or if
drug testing is humane, if done in Latin America? Is it kinder
to kill children through sanctions or just plain invasion of
their country? Is suicide the ultimate art performance, or is
murder the more radical one? Are snuff films art?
The challenge is not merely to negate or ask questions but to find the
answers. New
values, fresh reference points, to discover what is really precious in life; not to avoid
experimentation but to move beyond destruction and take a stand.
Ultimately it is only we who can infuse our art
with new meaning. Now, let me go and scatter some fresh
flowers on my parents' graves, those goats must be
hungry.
