The Regeneration— At Principle Gallery
Fixity is always momentary. It is an equilibrium, at once precarious and perfect, that lasts the space of an instant: a flickering of the light, the appearance of a cloud, or a slight change in temperature is enough to break the repose-pact and unleash the series of metamorphoses. Each metamorphosis, in turn, is another moment of fixity succeeded by another change and another unexpected equilibrium. No one is alone, and each change here brings about another change there. No one is alone and nothing is solid: change is comprised of fixities that are momentary accords.
–Octavio Paz, The Monkey Grammarian (1974)
It is almost banal to say so yet it needs to be stressed continually: all is creation, all is change, all is flux, all is metamorphosis.
–Henry Miller, Sunday After the War (1944)
Yesterday, I was working– more slowly than I would like– and a favorite Philip Glass composition, Metamorphosis II, came on. Glass wrote five Metamorphoses piano pieces in 1988, taking inspiration from the Franz Kafka story, The Metamorphosis. I am sure most of you are aware of the story in which a young man, Gregor Samsa, awakens one morning to find that he has been transformed into a large insect. There has been a lot of conjecture over the years as to the meaning of Samsa’s transformation and, like most works of art, is subjective. We each see what speaks to our own circumstances, values, and concerns.
I am a big believer in personal metamorphosis. Certain constancies seem appealing, of course. To always be honest, fair-minded, or kind, for examples. I would hope they would remain unchanged. But in many other ways all I can think is how awful it would be to always remain the same, to never change even as the world around you constantly transform itself. And wouldn’t it be shameful to stay the same if you were to become aware of your own shortcomings or past errors of judgement?
I know that I have experienced some degree of metamorphosis in my life. And I am thankful for that because the idea of being that same exact person from 50 years ago seems terrifying in an almost Kafkaesque way. Kind of a reverse Gregor Samsa situation, where he wakes up one morning to find that he has totally been unchanged by the events– the tragedies and triumphs, the sorrows of loss and the joys of love– of his life. I think
I would prefer to be a large insect.
Maybe that is one way to look at Kafka’s story, that Gregor Samsa found that after everything that occurred in his life, he woke one morning to find himself changed not for the better. Instead, he found that he had become the absolute worst version of himself.
That’s a scary scenario and, unfortunately, I would not be surprised that there are many such Gregor Samsa’s out there.
You might be wondering, for good reason, what is the point I am trying to make here.
I don’t really know. except to say that change is a universal constant which no person can fully resist. Learning and adapting to these changes ultimately metamorphosizes, like that of the caterpillar into the butterfly, into something more, perhaps wisdom, truth, and beauty.
Resist change and instead of a butterfly, you’ll find yourself a big cockroach or maybe a stink bug. Your choice.
Probably not the ending you were expecting here. Oh, well.
It all really comes around to sharing the Philip Glass piece, Metamorphosis II. I recently found out that this piece was greatly influenced by another favorite piece, Fratres, from composer Arvo Pärt, whose work I have featured many times over the years. Probably why it so appeals to me.
And I, too, felt ready to start life all over again. It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe. To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I’d been happy, and that I was happy still.
Redtree Times 