I recently saw an article online about the diminishing number of American college students choosing arts-related degrees. Liberal arts degrees have declined about 10% over a decade, while English/Literature majors have declined more than 30%. Most students these days pursue what I would call career preparation, like business or computer science.

Somehow we now have gotten the idea that a college education is or should be job training. I know I didn't look at it that way when I entered university (many years ago!). I took courses in a variety of disciplines, without regard to (and in some cases antithetical to) career prospects. My job training was going to be law school, though I took a slight detour into writing about lawyers instead.

I know everyone has a different financial situation, and has needs and expectations that affect these choices. But for most, I would hope college would be a time to learn about you, and the world, and the human condition. Follow a discipline if that is what interests you, but keep your vision wide and see what's out there.

I had a few low-paying positions in the beginning. But in the long run, my degree in English/Philosophy turned out to be excellent career prep. Being able to think and write has kept me well employed over the last 40 years or so. And I have always been grateful for the expansive view that my liberal arts degree afforded me, and the rich life that a curious mind and wide-ranging education have allowed me year after year.

There used to be a bookstore maybe twenty miles from me called Daedalus Books that sold publishers remainders or overstock at good prices. They always had an unusual selection in stock, lots of art and drama and philosophy and other subjects that are tucked away in the back of larger bookstores (if there are any left). Sadly, the Daedalus physical store has morphed into an online version, as so many have.

Years ago, not sure of the numbers, but probably more than some and less than many, I purchased a book there called The Flow of Art. I didn’t look at it then, expecting to peruse at leisure, but it sounded like a book on the philosophy of art, or the mechanisms of art, or something equally esoteric. My perusal was delayed until this year, when I finally rescued it from the bottom shelf of a bookcase.

As it turned out, it was neither philosophy or how-to, but a compilation of art reviews by critic Henry McBride from his lofty position as the art critic for the New York Sun newspaper from the turn of the Twentieth century onward. Fortunately, Mr. McBride had the opportunity to observe some of the most compelling and exciting art and artists that century produced. Some of them I have heard of: Picasso, Braque, Matisse, Rodin, and so forth. Many others are new to me, and will provide many fine hours of research and appreciation.

McBride’s contemporaneous viewpoint is fascinating, and his intimate engagement with both art and artist (and other critics) is enlightening and entertaining. But what astonishes me most in these pieces is the quality of the prose.

Voice is the rarest of qualities in a writer. You can be a great writer without it (Shakespeare had it, Marlowe didn’t; Woolf had it, Joyce didn’t, and so on), but you have to work much harder. 

McBride’s prose has voice, unique and simple and full of good humor regarding the world he reports on and the reporter himself. He invites us all into this remarkable world with such ease and pleasure, as thought he were sharing a thought over an espresso (probably in a café with Stein and Cezanne in the background).

If you have the chance to join him for a cup or two, I highly recommend it. 

Fishing is a solitary thing.
At least for me.
Over the years, I cherish
most those solitary hours.

I recently had a few hours
alone on a small stream
meandering through
a mountain meadow.
The setting was almost
beyond description.
A high meadow,
set part by itself.
Fishing was slow.
The wind was difficult.
The ground was boggy.
It was wonderful.

One is totally mindful
at such a time.
Every second —
every movement counts.
The sun. The wind.
The current. The shadows.
The sky. The grass.
The fish. The strike.
In my deep concentration,
with only a few rising fish,
I heard an odd sound.
Was I not alone?

There – I heard it again.
I was in an open valley.
I could see for miles.
I saw no one.
Cast. Drift. Retrieve. Repeat.
You get into a rhythm.
Each cast promises success.
But few are perfect.
There it is again.
What am I hearing.
I moved a little.
Upstream. Downstream

My company has mostly been
those Red-winged Blackbirds.
They seem to own this
valley and the stream.
They scolded on my arrival.
Unhappy – they complain
of my very existence.  But
that is not what I hear.
Fishing is slow. I catch one.
Too small – liberated, it
swims away. I moved farther.
I go upstream by a bridge.

Here is a quiet, grassy pool
with a current flowing out
from under the bridge.
It looks promising.
There – I hear it now.
Much closer. There — again.
I look around — searching
the shore and grasses.
It’s an unfamiliar sound.
And just then a Coot
paddles out from the
streamside grasses.

A solitary Coot. Black
in color, with a facemask
bill. Not a duckbill. More
pointed and pronounced.
It reminds me of the
months – years – spent
with our pandemic masks.
He – I assume it’s a “he” –
seems much happier than
the Blackbirds. He does
his thing and I do mine.
I stop and watch.

We coexist for a while,
moments on a quiet pool
high in a mountain meadow.
On the most beautiful day
of the year. He paddles a bit.
I fish a bit.
He calls once or twice.
He and I are placid
companions on this stream.
Neither of us have a complaint
or a care. I pass to the other
side of the bridge. He watches.

 *     *     *

"When I went to Venice, I discovered that my dream had become – incredibly, but quite simply – my address." Marcel Proust

Venezia - Peder Mørk Mønsted