Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.
A perfect morning to sit on the sofa and drink coffee. It is wet and cold and dark outside. But here on the inside the heat pump hums gently in the background, a curl of coffee vapors climbs out of the pot and fills the room, and the sofa, conformed by many other mornings and evenings of our time together, calls me once again to sit down and get comfortable.
And so I do. At this time of morning on this kind of day I like to keep the house a little dark while I sit, the only light being the grey of early morning filtered through thick rainy clouds, and one lamp on the table next to the sofa, filling the corner of the room with soft light.
Even soft light reveals hard things. Light is light. It reveals truth. It extinguishes darkness. And this morning, as I nestled into my comfortable place, the light was gently brutal as it directed my eyes. There in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall for several months waiting to be hung, illuminated by the lone lamp in the room like a museum piece, was a block print by Birmingham artist Debra Riffe. I bought it because it provoked me. I suppose I let it sit out of the way for months because I did not want to be provoked. But the light grabbed it this morning. This lively, artful expression that so provoked me deserved better. But it was hard to fit into my comfortable corner of the world, at least in a place high enough to be noticed.
This art form sometimes creates a look similar to a theater or concert poster. In this print there stands an older African American man playing an acoustic guitar strapped around his neck. The poster reads "I ain't fixin' ta sit down."
I do not presume to know what brought the man in the print to make that proclamation. In my mind's eye I see the man to be of an age that our years of life would overlap, and so honestly, it would be willful ignorance if I could not form a general idea of reasons for his defiance or the message of his music.
There are a few things I can learn from the print leaning against the wall of my den. There are songs of life being sung all around us. It is important that there is time and space for the songs to be sung, but more importantly, that those songs be heard by those who need to hear.
But it is just a print. Ink on paper. I cannot hear the notes of the music being played, the specific words being sung by looking at the print. The artist has done her job. She provoked me to want to hear the old man's song. Thank goodness for the light of this morning.
I must leave my comfortable corner to hear the songs. I might want to turn away. I might want to sing along.
But before I do anything, I must go and listen.
.
