Every once in a while, I’ll be at the library when I suddenly realize that I’ll need to check out a book if I want to have something to read for later. This is a very unusual scenario, reader, for I almost always plan ahead for what I’ll read on a given journey. But sometimes, circumstances will see me in sudden need of a book and I’ll wander off through the library hoping that when my eyes notice what I’m looking for, I’ll know not to let the opportunity pass me by.
One dreary Sunday afternoon in May, I found myself in such a situation. I had left my apartment intending to spend the day zipping from appointment to appointment on a bike when I realized that if the cloudy skies opened up I would be forced off my bike and onto public transportation. Luckily, my first stop was the library, and after a quick browse through the new releases section I ended up pulling Devotion off the end of a shelf.
Devotion turned out to be a successful choice for its specific role but it would have been an enjoyable read regardless of my circumstances at the time of checkout. The short book – around ninety pages – is broken up into three parts. The first section follows Smith around as she goes through various events in her life. The second and longest section is a short story, ‘Devotion’, where many of the moments from the first section inform elements of the story. The final and shortest section brings it all together (1). The book, in short, is one way to consider an important thought about art – how does an artist’s life inspire the artist’s work? Or, to put in terms of a borrowed thought from Devotion – is the artist’s life the hand that dictates the work or merely just another influence among many?
As it turned out, the skies held on the day I checked this book out and I spent most of the day gleefully zipping from destination to destination on a bike. I didn’t get to start reading this book until later that night during the commercial breaks of the Boston Celtics playoff game. The game didn’t quite work out for the Celtics as many players missed the same shots they had been making during the other games.
I felt bad for some of the players and wondered about their disappointment. For these players, there had been a simpler time when all they had wanted to do was just play, not for fame or fortune or to win some game but because they just wanted to play. Once, just playing was the only thing they wanted to do, and in a sense, that's still what it was, but it wasn't quite the same, either. They were being paid the big bucks and it no longer mattered that they were doing all that they ever wanted to do. Things had changed, things were different now, and circumstances meant that neglecting new duties and responsibilities would mean losing the chance to play. I suppose on nights like that one when the game got really difficult, a player might take some comfort in tracing back to those humble origins, to those dreary Sunday afternoons, when they would leave home with little more than a vague hope that the skies would hold long enough to play, just play, even if for a little while.
Footnotes / well, who can remember everything, right?
1. Or, I should say, I think...
Honestly, reader, I’ve kind of forgotten about what happens in this final section.
