This blog post was originally published by the Northumberland Festival Of The Arts in 2021 and consecutively published in 2022 by Devour: Art & Lit Canada, issue 013.
“Together in Solitude” (Oil on Canvas) by Jennifer Trefiak 2021
Merriam-Webster defines resilience as a noun that means: “the ability to become strong, healthy, or successful again after something bad happens.”
That’s pretty heavy because the events that lead us to become resilient are not insignificant; these are life altering events such as death, job loss, discrimination, illness, abuse, and trauma. What’s interesting to me about resilience is that you don’t know if you are resilient until you’ve come through to the other side; it is a test of your endurance as a human being and a test of your spirit. Becoming resilient is a painful experience.
Just as you don’t know if you’re resilient until you’ve made it to the other side of adversity, you cannot celebrate resilience until you have healed from those moments that tested you. Some moments can never be celebrated at all, it’s enough to make it through alive.
For some of us, the past two years have been a blessing, and for others, it’s been a time of struggle. For the arts sector it has been both.
The arts became a shining light for the world to grasp onto during the frightening beginning of the pandemic when so much was unknown. We felt alone and so we attended virtual concerts, online art openings, and play readings. As artists we had endless time to create and to explore our inner worlds. The arts brought all of us solace and joy when we needed it the most.
The other side to that is that many artists have felt the financial and spiritual burden of the past two years. Those venues that we require to make music, display art, and read poetry have not been available until very recently. We too, have had to adjust ourselves to the virtual world, and for some artists and arts groups that has been difficult or impossible.
As for the spiritual burden, if you do not have an audience you do not have art. If your book isn’t being read, your song is not performed and your artwork not seen, then does the art really exist? Art exists only in relationship to the audience receiving it. At least, that’s what I believe. When we bring art to people there is an energy and a connection which emerges that simply doesn’t exist on a screen.
Slowly, we are gathering the pieces of ourselves and coming together. As we begin to move into public spaces once more, I dearly hope that the individuals who took pleasure and comfort in the arts from their living room couch will support us in person. I also hope that we as artists and arts institutions continue to make our work accessible to everyone.
Which brings me back to the topic at hand, resilience. When I find myself looking for answers I always look to Mother Earth. She speaks if you listen, and resilience is her middle name. When a forest burns there is a period of regeneration afterwards. In fact, many plant species require a fire in order to propagate and thrive. It’s a natural cycle of life and one which Indigenous cultures know well. A prescribed burn prevents widespread and destructive fires with a carefully curated one. Destruction creates resilience, regrowth, and beauty.
I believe that we as an arts community will move into a period of regrowth and beauty, like after a forest fire. Where resilience factors in is in how we move forward. Do we do the same as we’ve always done? Or do we take these teachings from this time period to enhance the experience of our shared love of all things beautiful and compelling? Once you burn you can’t forget. Those seedlings of creativity, so freely shared during the pandemic and carefully tended by those desiring them, will not forget their roots. Those lessons will structure our collective resilience and regrowth. They will guide us into the next phase of art creation and appreciation. Then, we can celebrate.
Jennifer Trefiak near Marathon, Ontario
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I will keep you updated on my latest work and perhaps some insight into my creative process.