Flight Risk gets off the ground

For the past few years I have wanted to write a column or a blog called Flight Risk, because that’s my idea of the most fun a writer (and a reader) can have.  I like the idea of flapping my arms or holding a pair of wings parallel to the ground as I pedal madly toward the edge. The edge of what? I don’t know. An argument? My ability to understand and describe the world? Language itself?

I think artists, sometimes at least, are flight risks. They show the culture that part of what it means to be human is to imagine something more. They threaten our conventional understanding of our lives together. They attempt to re-make it in some small way. Or even better, some large way.

I’ve always been attracted by the audacity of the artist. And strangely enough, as I think about it now, I’ve spent most of a lifetime considering artists and their work, one way or another, sometimes formally but most often in broader ways, using them for my own purposes, to inspire my own flights, my own understanding — of myself, of my world, of the direction of things.

Flight Risk continues that consideration for me, though the name is a challenge to do it more audaciously, to flap my arms harder, to imagine what it means to fly.

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