Charlie’s Art

Blogs are strange. Do people blog anymore? Do we read more than 140 characters, and if not that, then just 18 words max plastered on a meme from a free online generator? Do we read more than a headline and then walk away with a fully formed world view that is somehow held together by a string of bold words reshared by an “influencer?” And if “we” do, (because I’m being generous that anyone is reading this at all) then this whole writing will be pointless because it checks no boxes and I am no influencer in the modern sense. I mind my own business and have learned that the world is too big and I have enough to focus on within my own family. That said, I find myself here more so for myself because there’s something about writing to the outside world rather than one’s own “notes to self.” Charlie Kirk’s death impacted so many and it’s hard to put in words why it feels so deeply personal. Like millions who have shared their thoughts already, it’s as though we lost a friend and in a remote world where everyone is connected through digital screens- we really did.

I’m typing this in Oklahoma. It’s a far cry from my near 3 decades in Seattle, and not only that, being surrounded by artists. You’d find me daily in a cafe in Cap Hill or listening intently to someone across from me with completely different views. They didn’t know that. No one ever did because it takes a long time for me to come up with my own ideas. I think it was always an assumption that political beliefs were like Covid. The air was contaminated and no one really knew the science of it, but let’s be real- only one was the party of science and they were quick to preach the gospel of that truth. There were always strange gaps in logic. Masks were worn to show off this sense of compassion, but could be taken off when seated. The air was always shifting. Sometimes it was contaminated with a virus that would kill us all. Other times, it politely held its deathly sting in order for us to finish the last bite of free range eggs. So long as society at large operated in this manner, no one really questioned it. Masks were a sign of virtue, and as more science, (an act of observation and nothing else) released, it did not matter because structure was established. It was a very simple time. Masks equaled good. Orange man bad. Buzz words good. Fox News bad. I enjoy simplicity but being described as simple is not a compliment.

Life is anything but simple. It’s changing. It requires a lot of shifting and adaptation. It requires a curiosity a real desire for the truth. The truth is not a mask that we wear, a sign that is held, or an identifier to let others know you share the same structural beliefs. The truth is often uncovered through thought, and thoughts are shared via words, and words are shared via conversation with other people; often, people we disagree with. As a creative, as one interested in culture, I became fascinatingly bored by the cliches and commonalities over generic hashtags. Many were possessed by an ideology and this did not necessarily need a body. It simply infiltrated each person and person A’s belief was identical to person B’s with zero curiosity as to whether these ideas were good, or even true. Art then is a sort of science. It requires keen observation and I felt as though my background as an outsider living in Tokyo in my developmental youth was almost my first language. I could observe and didn’t necessarily speak back. My parents spoke to me in Japanese and I’d reply in English. When I moved back to Japan, I attended an international school and so it was this weird subculture of living almost as though an island within a country. I was forced to speak but I’d much rather observe. I’d observe the subtle gestures famous to Japan and what people didn’t say. I carried that with me, once again, as my main tool in communication. I watch, I listen, and I believe I’m quite good at both.

As an artist, I always found other cultures, perspectives of the world, and ideas fascinating. There was once a dance between two people of different backgrounds. “I believe this,” and the other would nod their head perhaps not in agreement but just in the necessary indication that he is listening. Then the other would reply, “That is interesting” and either follow up with more questions or else politely counter an idea with their own beliefs. The dance was between two partners with structured melody in the background and an understanding that this was in fact a dance. Somewhere along the way, it became a lockstep march. There was no agreement about the structured melody. No agreement of finding a partner who thought differently than you. No interesting steps of improvisation, caught graciously by the other who was paying attention to each step.

I once, (briefly) was a jazz piano performance major at what is now Seattle University before dropping out for an opportunity in popular music. The cool thing about jazz is that you can play off the melody. Growing up, I’d famously say to my parents that I hated classical. It was too boring, too rigid, and anyone could just read music. I enjoyed the bits of chaos in jazz where the chord progressions hovered above the lines of composition. Even the melody resembled a line coming from The Pirates of the Caribbean when speaking of the pirate’s code. “The code is more like guidelines than actual rules.” I enjoyed being a musical pirate rather than the sharp dressed governmental force in lockstep with one another. Charlie was a pirate in that sense- willing to travel to places that could not disagree more. He’d set up a table, turn on some music, and allow a dance. The dance is not always beautiful. Sometimes it can be awkward and hard to watch but no one could argue that he did not provide room for the art.

If conversation is an art, then there are many who despise the arts. With all the millions of songs written, they’d rather you only be able to listen to a few they approve of. Hell, they may even call themselves artists. They do not adventure to other places or even have the courage to walk down the street. They exist within caves and believe that the general public should also exist there with them. It is safe there, and though the hymns lack substance, they are approved by the others in the dark cave. Charlie would enter the caverns and provide some light, and for that simple thing, he died. He did not just die. He was savagely murdered.

The cool thing about the art of conversation is that no one can stop it. And though one song was abruptly ended, a million more will take its place. Good art tends to have that impact and now many more hum the same tune. Like jazz, “the code is more like guidelines than actual rules” and Charlie’s melody will be played in greater number to greater crowds. The art of conversation will never die.