Georgia O'Keeffe (November 15, 1887–March 6, 1986), celebrated as America's first prominent female artist, was a woman with strong views on art, life, and priorities and an unusual gift for committing to the words she committed to the canvas. But some of her most revealing insights into art and creative experience were shared in a series of letters to writer Sherwood Anderson, a former friend of photographer Alfred Stieglitz — O'Keeffe's husband and her correspondent for many volumes of love letters. Encountering O'Keeffe's art in the early 1920s inspired Anderson to pick up a paintbrush for the first time and begin painting himself. During that time, the two developed an epistolary relationship about their shared views on art and their peaceful disagreements. (Only three years later, Anderson would come to express his unforgettable artistic genius in a letter to his son, likely influenced by O'Keeffe and their creative relationship.)
Found inside Georgia O'Keeffe: Art and Literature (public library) – a completely out-of-print volume released in 1987, a year after O'Keeffe's death, to mark his centenary – these letters represent a kind of creative integrity that transcends public opinion and burns with a vivid clarity of conviction. At the same time, one can't help but wonder how O'Keeffe's art – that is his mind – might have suffered had he lived in our current era of endless running on the social media hamster wheel.
On August 1, 1923, he writes to Anderson:
This morning I saw an envelope on the Stieglitz table addressed to you — I have often wanted to write to you — two things in particular to tell you — but I don't write — I don't write to anyone — maybe I don't like to tell people — and writing means that.
First of all I wanted to tell you – long ago in the winter that I liked your “Many Weddings” – and what others say about it made me very happy – I realize when I hear others talk about it that I don't seem to read the way they read – I feel like – I like it – or I reject it – for no reason other than that it is unavoidable at the moment. When I read it I saw no reason why I should write to you that I liked you – because I don't think that I like – or dislike any effect on anyone other than me – And knowing that you are trying to work I felt that the ideas about what happened to you will probably be like so much garbage – on your way to find something clear ahead – And when I think about you – I often wish – I wish that the work is going well – – that nothing interferes –
I think of you often because the few times you came to us were good – like beautiful days in the mountains – good to remember – clear shine and lots of wind – cool air.
After a poignant note about Stieglitz's life the spring that had left him “a mass of misery – sleepless – eyes – ears – ears – nose – arm – feet – ankles – intestines – all taking a chance to abandon him,” O'Keeffe expresses deep gratitude for the very thing that led Virginia Woolf to write a book about human art “the text of the human soul” another:
You see why I value your letters—perhaps more than he did—because of what they gave him—I don't remember now what you wrote—I only remember that they made me feel something about what I know you are—that it meant so much to you—it added so much to your life—and a real love for him seemed to grow in it.
And in his grief he was very sad – and I think I was also sad and feeling depressed – so your voice was kind to hear it from afar and I want to tell you that it meant a lot – Thank you.
Realizing the mirror of misfortune looking back, he adds, “I can only write this now because things are better.”
O'Keeffe and Anderson continue their correspondence and in another letter he sends a month later, he denies his frustration with “talking [herself] to people” and instead of revealing – in the powerful and joyful words from both his art and his letters to loved ones – beautiful glimpses of his inner life and creative spirit. He considers the role of form in art and the knowledge from which art originates:
I feel that the real living condition is the result of a person's attempt to create a living thing that comes from the movement of his spirit in an unknown place – where he has experienced something – felt something – that he did not understand – and from that experience comes the desire to make the unknown – known. By the unknown – I mean the most important thing for a person who wants to put it down – clarify something that he feels but does not understand clearly – sometimes he knows a little why – sometimes he can't – sometimes everything works in the dark – but the work that needs to be done – Making the unknown – known – according to the principles of everyone's way – if you stop thinking in the artist's way – you must lose form – You must not even think that you will not succeed – Whether you succeed or not is not important – there is no such thing. Making your unknown known is important – and keeping the unknown always beyond you – gloriously holding onto your version of a simple and clear life – only to see it become stale compared to what you felt you were before – which you must continue to work to hold – form. it should take care of yourself if you can't keep your vision clear.
In words of extraordinary humility and wisdom, especially when looking back at both O'Keeffe's current status in the art world and Anderson's in that of literature, he considers the frailty of any current metric of success against the creator's ultimate importance to generations to come:
You and I do not know whether our vision is clear in relation to our time or not – No matter what failure or success we may have – we will not know – But we can maintain our integrity – according to our sense of balance with the world and that creates our condition –
In a sense that reminds us of Maurice Sendak's famous opposition to a general section of his work— “I don't write for children. I write – and someone says, 'That's for children!' – O'Keeffe adds:
What others call a form has nothing to do with our form – I want to create my own and there is nothing else I can do – if I stop and think what others – the authorities or the public – or anyone – will say about my form I will not be able to do anything.
I can never show what I am working on without being stopped – like it or not I am affected in the same way – a kind of disability – .
All of Georgia O'Keeffe: Art and Literature it is a treat for the eye and the soul alike. Fill this in a bit with Anna Deavere Smith on how to stop letting others define us and Rilke on why outside interference in an artist's private experience is harmful to art.
