The "collective shop" in which we're tinkering is Red Room, and Lewis Hyde was right.  Writers thrive on the unobstructed circulation of creative ideas.  Our creations are the lifeblood of the artistic community.  And as he wrote in "The Gift" decades ago, the one who gives away most is the richest, the most vital.  Think of Picasso, or Wiliam Carlos Williams, Anais Nin, Lucille Clifton, or Belle Yang.  Thanks to our hosts at Red Room for giving our ideas the space for free exchange.

Today's New York Times Magazine article "What is Art For?" (Daniel B. Smith) reminds me to dip into Hyde's work again.  He worked on that book for seven years, struggling to make ends meet.   My sister gave me a copy of "The Gift" in the early eighties, and I return to it when I need a booster shot of inspiration, need to be reminded of why poets and artists persist in a market economy that scorns them  

Hyde started out by believing in art as pure, non-commercial gift.   But after years of research and writing, he came to a place of compromise.  He looked for a way to reconcile the two economies--the artistic, which expects nothing in return, and the marketplace, which values commercial success.

Red Roomers are engaged in vigorous dialogue, both about the nature of art for its own sake, and about the tools for conveying this art into the economic marketplace.   Art embodies what Nathaniel Tarn called "the beautiful contradictions."

Usually I have my students create a "gift-giving event" (a kind of potlatch), where they bring in objects that they have loved, ones that have had meaning for them--and that they now are ready to part with.   Each student will say what the object means and then leave it on the cloth spread in the center of the floor.  Then I will start to quickly and randomly hand out a gift, and the person who gets the gift then speedily hands out the next one, until all the objects are dispersed.  Then, as in a potlatch, people can complain loudly (think of the old Jewish ladies on the lower East Side--"this is what you're giving me?  After all I've done for you? You're going to piss on my back and call it rain?")

Over the years I've kept a few of the gifts from these ceremonies--a gay Superman doll (redundant? those flashy tights!), a copy of "Reading Lolita in Tehran."

I wrote "One for Each Night: Chanukah Tales and Recipes" for my daughter and husband a few years ago, to give them stories instead of material objects for gifts.  The recipes came from my mother-in-law, who used to be a caterer. At first, Lou and Heather were dubious about stories as gifts.   But when they realized the stories had food in them, and that I would cook for them each night to correspond with the theme of  the stories--then they tore their envelopes open to read the night's gift!  A story and a latke with sour cream, a story and a crispy rugalach--what could be bad? Zingerman's delicatessen in Ann Arbor has included that book in its Chanukah gift basket each year.  Ironically, the work I created to teach my family not to be so materialistic has given me back some lovely royalties!  

Let's give more books this holiday--used books can be joyfully recirculated too.  Remember that little velveteen rabbit. Every time we compose an artful entry for Red Room we are also contributing to the vibrant artistic community of our time.  

"In this cold commodity culture

Where you lay your money down

It's hard to even notice

That all this earth is hallowed ground...

The gift keeps moving

Never know where it's going to land

You must stand back and let it

Keep on changing hands."    

(Lyrics by Bruce Cockburn, quoted by Daniel B. Smith, The New York Times Magazine / November 16, 2008, 43).