Conclavity of the Arts

When I was invited to function as the Mormon Arts Foundation’s Chair of Literature some years ago, I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it.  Yeah, we make our living in the music biz, but that’s all just working class stuff; when you know drummers personally, you don’t get all puffed up with yourself over your involvement in the “arts.”  And anyway, I found out that the Arts guys, getting together to plan the annual retreat, said, “Hey—we’ve got visual arts guys coming, and theater guys and film guys and music people (they have  yet to invite a drummer).  Are there any other art forms out there we should be paying attention to?”

At which time the Music Chair, who had done hours and hours in our studio—who had, in fact, cut his teeth on our console—said, “Hey.  I think Kristen writes books.”  And—ta-da—literature sprang into being as a fully founded and funded Group for the next retreat.  Do not ask me if any of them had read my books; I was a pig in a poke then.  I still pretty much still am.

Were the discussion to lag, there’s always the magnificence of creation to keep the eye busy.

Aspen Grove Family Camp in early spring

My buddy Cori, who writes like an angel.  And the good Julie Rogers.

The Hoffmans and Ross Boothe

My formal experience in “The Arts” began in college.  Note the “formal.”  I was brought up in a house with a piano, a mother who taught me harmony, walls’ worth of books, tap/ballet lessons (complete with tutu) and there you are: a person who was a music major in University for exactly ten minutes, at which point it became glaringly clear that serious music was going to be TOO DARN HARD.

Morning session.  I looked up and saw this incredible reflection on the lid of the piano.  Our piano would NEVER do such a thing – too dusty, and stuck in that dark old studio.

Marvin Payne

So I majored in Theater instead.  And by this means got to know the full range of weirdos who hung out at the Fine Arts Center.  I repented of this silliness by choosing English as my graduate study.  Big Mistake.  Weirdoes there too, only with verbal acuity.

I shoulda had a picture of Dave, too.  But I guess I can’t take my eyes off my own tech geek.

 Q Randle, journalist, professor, songwriter (Nashville), brother-in-law and dog groomer

Eric Orton and the lovely Perrys (also this)

And through all this experience, I found that “artists” are often people who spend an awful lot of time looking down their noses at the poor schlubby old nebbishes who should be making up their audience (Why don’t they “get” me?  Because I am too deeeep.)  And much “artistic” discussion centers around this philosophical question: “How can we get them to give us money without selling out our ‘artistic integrity’??”  But all of this is fodder for another day.  The point is, I was afraid that the Mormon Arts Retreat would end up being more of the same – with an extra shot of “how the church and our kids get in the way of our genius and success,” for good measure.

Turns out I was wrong.  WAY wrong. 

 

Christensens

Pretty good eats up there in the mountains

My friend, Dorothy, and hubby

 

Dave and Jefra Linn  (Jefra also here)

The retreats are small, each Chair inviting seven people to represent his/her discipline, so that’s thirty-five guests, give or take the couple of dancers who keep sneaking in, plus spouses (don’t you hate that word?) plus board members, plus grunts, which is what G is, one of two A/V grunts (the other one is a sitting judge—a real one) which is why I am still invited.  So I go as a grunt’s wife, now.  Because Chairs and guests rotate.

Stewarts  (Hi, Mary!)

The honorable Cards

Sometimes they invite truly useful people, like copyright lawyers like Bill Evens (who is secretly still a musician), to explain the rigors of real life to us.

The adorable Rick Walton

I am writing about this because every time we go, I come away impressed with the kindness, the quiet earnestness and humility of so many of the people we get to party with there.  I say party – and it feels that way – a serious, grown-up, enriching, challenging party that centers around really good conversation, some about the business of the arts. But mostly about the work the arts should do to serve.  It’s still a group of weirdoes, but really, really talented, nice, faithful weirdoes, who share faith and a sense of responsibility. 

Lew Swain and a Stephen Tuttle

Sharlee Mullins Glenn and  Mette Harrison

Gerald Lund

Swains and Thompsons and other nice folks.  (If you follow the link to see Dahrl’s really cool stone sculptures, select “artists gallery” then click on her name—second row from the bottom, on the far left.)

And my brain’s gone and I can’t remember this lovely writer’s name – Vicki Richmond, is that you?  

 

And who constantly remind each other that gifts are given to people on earth so that they may serve as many as need their service—to heal, uplift and bless where they can.  

And even weirdoes like to get together with their own odd kind now and then, just for the simple joy of feeling not so weird.

 

 I don’t have pictures of everybody, obviously, and I apologize, should any of you MAF guys actually stumble on this blog and feel left out.  Or relieved.  I really apologize if you feel relieved because that will mean that the blog isn’t as cool as I thought it was. 

Especially, I write this to  Kershisniks and Greg Hansen and every other person I should have shot and remembered.  With the camera, I mean.