On Longing and Loving, Being and Artistry

On Longing and Loving, Being and Artistry

I went to a concert in Bristol last night. This morning I have the sense that something important happened to me – I am remembering how my heart filled up and my eyes only just held back the swell of unnamed emotions. This morning, whilst I get on and empty the dishwasher, mark an essay and respond to emails, I know I’ve also paid attention to something essential and sublime about living – connecting with feelings of love, loss, anguish, beauty.

I saw The John Martyn Project at St. George’s in Bristol. They were a group of the most genius musicians channelling a genius musician. I could sense their personal interconnectedness as well as their personal connections with the music. Each had a different voice, and they all had a turn to lead sing. They moved from one instrument to the other. There was a generosity, as if they loved sharing something that the audience wanted. And I so wanted to hear John Martyn’s music again – it had been the sound-track to my early twenties, echoing my own sentiments of longing for ‘I do not know what’.

I found myself liking them. Of course, I don’t know them, but I fell a little in love with each of the performers’ stage presence, charisma and physical responsiveness to the music. And … Oh My God! If anyone knows John Martyn’s music – they played “John Wayne” and portrayed the darkness. Their technical skill and expertise allowed such confidence that it was almost invisible. All that came to me was the music.

I wondered if I enjoyed their communicating John Martyn’s music more than if the man himself had been performing. I saw John Martyn live a long time ago. Perhaps it was 1998. I remember Martyn’s presence as well as sensing his irascible and ill-tempered mood. I didn’t believe he wanted to be on that stage. He reached for a drink much of the evening.

I’ve read some of the stories about his life. The stories talk of childhood roots already soaked in alcohol. Of a distance from his mother that lead to misogyny. To a leaning into violence. Addiction. Domestic abuse.

And much of John Martyn’s music consists of the most sublime love songs. Maybe “Couldn’t love you more” is one of the most heart-swelling songs I know. I’ve just listened to him singing it on YouTube. As I hear his voice crescendo with yearning and almost desperate passion, then descending into tenderness, I recognise something that I believe is universal for all those that have ever loved.

And yet, the lyrics… have a read: -

If you kissed the sun right out of the sky for me
And if you told me all the lies that I deserve
And if you laid all night in the rain for me

Well, I couldn't love you more
Just couldn't love you more
I couldn't love you more

And if you loved me till my eyes gave no more shine for you
If you walked beside me all the long way home
If you wasted all of your time on me

Well, I couldn't love you more
Just couldn't love you more
I couldn't love you more
Just couldn't love you more

And if you gave me all the things I'd never ask of you
And if you showed me all the ways you have to cry
And if you lay all night in the rain for me

I couldn't love you more
Just couldn't love you more
Just couldn't love you more

There’s poetry in the words, and most interpret them as an exposition of just how unconditional his love is. I was, however, struck by the ‘ifs’ that imagine how his love might suffer more, lie more, sacrifice herself more. This vein of destruction and cruelty does not chime well with modern textbooks theorising on how to have a healthy relationship. The first rule is that we need to love ourselves before we can truly love another.

By all accounts, John Martyn’s life did not follow a psychologically healthy trajectory. I find myself wondering how much of his genius was fuelled by the anguish created from suffering. This leads to a fusion and tangle of disparate ideas. Can one separate the artist from the art? In asking this I know I touch the political, cultural, deeply personal and philosophical.

What is my answer? Well… I rather hope I haven’t got an answer. I don’t want a pithy conclusion to ignore the complex truth. I do however go with Elizabeth Gilbert’s stance that an artist isn’t a genius but has a genius. Martyn didn’t choose to have the innate musical ability to produce astounding sounds and push musical boundaries. As with all geniuses, music is stretched and moved and progressed with creativity and innovation. This means it’s too late to cancel him even if we wanted to. His genius has influenced.

Has he, as a person, influenced? The emotions his music evokes are of juxtapositions, anger, cruelty, violence, childishness, love and beauty, humour. Timeless. They may have been born from his own life stories, and his life stories have unforgivable behaviour in them. Does the fact that we are moved so deeply by his music condone and forgive his behaviour? I don’t condone his behaviour, yet I accept that he has destructive drives, as do we all.

I end up with the ‘and/and’ as opposed to ‘either/or’. In psychotherapy we experience people as both destructive and loving, wise and playful, selfish and passionate. It is my openness to my own potentials for the destructive forces within myself that allows me to work with acceptance of others’ darker sides. And when, in turn, others accept their own darker sides, they paradoxically make choices that lean towards the socially constructive.

I say let’s talk about the darkness, let it in, don’t condone it but accept it, know it is part of humanity and universal. Let’s learn and contemplate our choices. Engage with longing and accept it’s ineffability. We may find a way that does not involve subsuming longing in substances or transmute passion to violence. In allowing it all, we may access love and kindness.