Meg recommends "The Swimming Song" by Loudon Wainwright III
It is October in Cleveland, OH and it has been raining for four days straight. I am your standard art school graduate, which is to say that I work three jobs, I rarely paint anymore, and I want far too much for myself. I am a gallery assistant, a host at a restaurant, and adhered to the basement of a local concert venue where I play and sell records. I catch the end of indie-rock shows. I feed my cat. I dye my hair. I eat dinner on the couch. I sigh, I am tired.
In between jobs I seek refuge from the car stereo.
The car is not for worrying, wanting, or rushing. It is for the sharp plucking of a banjo followed by the clear, twangy croon of Loudon Wainwright III as he hands over the first verse of “The Swimming Song”, the first track of his 1973 folk album Attempted Mustache.
"This summer I went swimming
This summer I might have drowned
But I held my breath and I kicked my feet
And I moved my arms around
Moved my arms around"
There is no metaphor, no deeper meaning. It is the swimming song. It gives itself up immediately. It is an anthem of mundane joy, an ode to movement and warm weather. This song meets you where you are and sweeps you off your feet. It holds you up on the surface of the water and shows you the sky. “The Swimming Song” whoops and yodels like an old friend. It holds your hand and jumps in the pool with you. It asks you to compete in an underwater handstand contest. It reminds you that there’s something to miss.
I feel so tempted to turn every feeling into something I can call art. I want to swaddle my feeling in metaphors and oil paint. Chew them up and spit them back at you. I want to write books and fill galleries. I want time and resources and endless inspiration. I am riddled with ambition.
“The Swimming Song” has never known ambition. It is coffee with your old friend. It is the smell of your parent’s house on a holiday. It is a game of cards, clean sheets, a long phone call, that guilty-pleasure book. It’s 70 degrees with low humidity. Your oldest sweatshirt. Breakfast for dinner. It comes and goes. It’s 2 minutes and 27 seconds of complete pleasure. Not understated, not overdone, it is just the swimming song, as it is.
Meg Lubey is a visual artist and writer. They love going for walks, the color yellow, and all the people around them. You can find out more about Lubey at meganlubeyart.com.
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