As I stare out my apartment window on a dreary Evanston night, I gaze down at the streetlights below me, and hide behind the curtain. Pedestrians patrol the streets on their way somewhere, looking for something, staying silent for some reason. I can’t hear them behind the stained glass nor can I see them without moving the curtain. It is as if the streetlights shine down on the pavement, keeping the people hidden from the light.
Here I stand behind the curtain, the subject within a portrait, the canvas on a landscape, the role player hiding behind the press. Behind the transparent curtain, I hide, waiting for the proper time to speak out. If I continue to stare out the window, one person could look up, give a dirty glare, flip me off (as if I were back home in Brooklyn), and curse under their breath.
But I don’t stare out the window for no apparent reason. Unlike the stalker creeping for its next victim, I stare out the window with a tinge of innocence and in search of answers. From my perspective, I wonder “why would you react the way you just reacted?” Imagine how painful it would be for me to find out what you really said underneath your cold, disparaging breath while you passed by me. What if I had been forced to stare out the window against my will with a gun to my back, but all you could truly see was the darkness behind my countenance? What if I had been paralyzed from the neck down at that precise moment, forced to stay in that precise position until someone like you could yell at me and ask if I needed help?
Highly unlikely, but it’s a thought.
As an aspiring journalist, I seek to answer those unknown questions. Perhaps not those exact questions, but strikingly similar ones that frame how I tell the story. One of the alluring aspects about journalism is the writer’s ability to extract one’s personality and reflect it onto the page. It’s the ability to move the curtain to the side, reach into the shadows and take out a profound piece. You learn about one’s depth in personality by not only listening to what one says but also what they don’t say. For instance, if I spoke with someone with a modest, standoffish personality, I would rely heavily on demonstrating their mannerisms in the piece rather than outright label them as “shy.” Body language often tells a different story and provides the writer with more flexibility when painting the portrait later on. The writer becomes the painter with one stroke of the pen. One must study their subject, paint an accurate interpretation and eventually allow the character to tell the story.
One night, on the train home from class in Chicago, I spoke with a fellow student who shared a striking interpretation of creativity from a drastically different perspective. We both came from polarized backgrounds; I was the journalist, he was the engineer; I was the creative writer, he was the logical programmer. When he spoke about the beauty of computer programming, his words struck me. He spoke with an unfathomable eloquence, relating a complex practice to art in such a way I would never have imagined. He said programming is just like writing a story. What? Though the programmer must be methodical in making sure all the code fits, he must choose its code sparingly so the program runs smoothly. Like a writer, however, the programmer visualizes how the program will process in the end and manipulates the parts in between to satisfy the result. My new friend said “You know, the best programmers are not the ones who know code the best. They’re the ones who can visualize and manipulate to make what they want happen.”
Sure, writers and engineers come from opposite sides of the spectrum. One is guaranteed to make money after school and the other isn’t (you could guess which one is which). Essentially, we are both creatures under the fun-loving, avuncular umbrella called art. Whether we are artists, journalists, writers, engineers, doctors, lawyers, mathematicians, firefighters or cops, we all share a bond with art that varies on how we look at each profession. There is no question art lies within the artist, but like the caring uncle, it shows up to each kid’s party, surprises them and showers them with gifts. There’s a beauty in watching a courageous firefighter leap into a burning building for the sake of others. There’s mystic in watching a lawyer eloquently attempt to persuade the judge and jury to take his side out of justice. There’s elegance to watching a computer animator give birth to new life to tell a heartwarming story.
And as I’ve learned this past year, there is this palpable sensation during an interview when you know you found that one person willing to talk and talk and talk, just to get their story to be heard. Abruptly, an indescribable feeling flows through your body as blood rushes through your veins in anticipation as you wait for that one perfect quote.
You feel its presence, but you could barely touch it.
Perhaps, this is why I write: to explore life’s endless possibilities, satisfy that subconscious urge to fulfill my needs and attempt to explain those needs either in my own way or through others. It allows to me to speak without being spoken to, to think without being questioned and to paint without a clear direction. Like the starving artist, I thrive on the thrill of not knowing what direction my piece is going end up. But like the programmer, I plan it out methodically, tweak the parts in between and create something, well, fulfilling.
Every person has a story to tell. You just have to look in the right place.
Edwin Rios 