If that sounds awkward – and inefficient – it was all part of the plan: they were discovering what could work, even in such adverse conditions, and cutting no corners.
That return, to me, is important, and that that exists is a reason for me to do the work that I’m doing. I can’t really put words to it. It’s just a feeling, but it’s there. It makes me want to create, and that’s the thing that matters to me most on the planet is encountering art that makes me want to make art.
When you write online, there are strong incentives to write prose that is tightly packed with insights and fastmoving and a little intense—to catch and hold attention. That can feel limiting. I wonder what is the slowest, calmest piece I could write that would still work?
They understood that repetition wasn't redundancy, but ritual! And each telling was both the same story and a completely new experience, shaped by the particular moment, the specific voices, the quality of attention brought to bear.