One tendency of workshop students is to expect a work of art to answer all of the questions it raises, even if those questions are projected onto the art by the respondents.
So for instance, a student will respond to a piece of writing by saying, “I wanted to know more about the blueberry pancakes. I found them really interesting and wanted to know more.”
And I ask, “Why?”
“Because they seemed interesting. I wanted to have them myself."
"Okay, but what does that have to do with the story?"
"Um . . . "
"What is the story about?"
"It's about a man going off to war."
"Then what will more information about the blueberry pancakes do to advance that story?"
"Ah, not much."
"Right. So, as a reader, reading the story, what do you want?"
"I see. In that case, I really don't care about the pancakes. (But I really love pancakes.)"
"Which is fine, but the writer has the right to create a world and fill it with all kinds of things that might interest us. As long as she doesn't make promises about exploring those objects, you may have to content yourself with the fact that the writer is merely doing her job and creating a vivid scene, one aspect of which may appeal to part of you that is not focused on the story."
Though the question in this example may have concerned a trivial detail, art may confront us with larger questions. And as respondents, we might consider that . . .
- Questions draw us into the artwork. They pique our curiosity.
- Great art often leaves us with unanswered questions that point beyond the artwork and engage our imagination.
Sometimes the questions are obvious, as in the case of Frank Stockton’s story “The Lady, or the Tiger?”
More frequently, the questions live in the fabric of the work. Consider how many questions this ancient Syriac chant, sung by French soprano Esther Lamandier, leaves in its wake.
We may leave this piece with more questions than we had going into it. And yet those questions open our minds to consider more than we had only moments earlier.
Thank you for reading.