INTERVIEW
Artist across centuries: an imagined interview with Virginia Wolf’s Orlando
10 December 2024 – Vol 2, Issue 4.
This text, written in the form of an interview, is based on content from this article about Orlando.
Gil: Let’s begin at the start of your journey as a young noble in Elizabethan England. What was art to you back then?
Orlando: Ah, back then, I was just a lad of sixteen, barely aware of the vast world beyond my dreams. Art was everything—grand, passionate, and seemingly just beyond reach. I filled pages with poetry, trying to capture some elusive beauty that I sensed but could not name. My writing was filled with lofty ideals and grand emotions. I wrote of kings and queens, of passionate love and heartache, as though I were destined to capture something divine. Those early years held a fervour; every word felt like it held the possibility of revelation. Yet, the more I wrote, the more it seemed the truth remained tantalisingly out of reach.
‘Orlando through the ages’, by AI and Gil Dekel. 2024.
Gil: What drove you to pursue art with such intensity?
Orlando: Writing felt like a path to life itself, a way to glimpse the whole tapestry – birth, death, beauty, eternity. In Elizabethan England, life was filled with extremes. Sunsets blazed red, rains were fierce, and everything seemed bigger, brighter, more vivid than anything before. But it was my solitude that granted me the freedom to sink into thought, to access a private well of creativity within. I’d retreat into my own company, turning away from others, to ponder these themes in silence. Isolation, I found, wasn’t lonely at all. It was the foundation of my creativity, a space where I could let my imagination run wild, free from the judgement of others.
Gil: When you finally began meeting other artists – poets – did this change your view of art?
Orlando: Oh, profoundly. I remember the first time I saw another poet at work – it was as though the world stopped around us. I was hurrying through the banqueting hall when I noticed him, deep in thought, his pen poised over paper but motionless. He seemed almost to be in communion with something beyond this world. For a young poet, witnessing that moment was a revelation. It felt sacred; like I’d glimpsed the very essence of creativity itself. Yet, I hardly dared approach him. In my eyes, he was elevated, separate, someone who could see the world with a rare clarity, someone almost divine. Meeting him felt like an initiation of sorts, a glimpse into the life I aspired to.
Gil: And later, when you encountered Nicholas Greene, an established writer, did your idealised view of art start to shift?
Orlando: It did, though not in the way I’d imagined. I thought writers were noble, that they led lives of purity and passion, but Greene shattered that illusion rather unceremoniously. He dismissed the art I loved as dead, claiming the only true poetry lay in the works of ancient Greece. He urged me to imitate the classics, to abandon originality for the tried and true. According to him, even Shakespeare himself was mere imitation, lacking in some fundamental way. Greene argued that modern poets were shallow, pandering to audiences rather than creating something lasting. His view was jarring; he seemed more cynical critic than a devoted artist.
Gil: And, did his cynicism affect your own approach to writing?
Orlando: Surprisingly, yes, though it liberated me more than anything else. I’d looked up to Greene, and his disapproval forced me to examine why I was writing. After he left, I made a vow to myself: from that moment, I would write solely for my own satisfaction. “I’ll be damned”, I thought, “if I ever write to please anyone but myself”. Greene’s critique showed me that I didn’t need anyone’s validation. Writing was my journey, my exploration of the world and my place in it. From then on, I wrote not to appease anyone, but simply to capture what I felt, to express my own truth, however flawed or raw.
Gil: And as you continued through the centuries, you underwent a personal transformation as well. How did entering the 18th century as a woman alter your approach to art?
Orlando: The transformation was… bewildering at first. Suddenly, the world’s expectations of me shifted entirely. As a man, I had been free to explore, to create unencumbered. But as a woman, I found myself expected to fit into genteel society, attending salons and gatherings that seemed to drain the life from art. However, I was drawn to these literary circles, hopeful that I might find kindred spirits. And yet, the ‘wits’ I admired from afar – the likes of Pope and Addison – turned out to be as flawed, as human, as anyone else.
I often felt as though I were caught between two worlds – the freedom I had known, and the constraints now placed upon me. The salons, while elegant, were full of a certain insincerity. Art seemed to lose its power when it was crafted solely to entertain or impress. I was drawn to the idea of creating something that could stand apart from societal expectations, something authentic.
I realised that my own approach to art needed to evolve. Art became less about grandiosity and more about capturing the quiet, the unnoticed – the fleeting beauty of a sunset, the way a shadow falls. I began to find profound meaning in the smallness of everyday life. It was a humbling shift, but one that allowed me to write from a deeper, more personal place.
Gil: Then, when you entered the 19th century, you encountered Nicholas Greene once more.
Orlando: (laughs) Three centuries had passed, yet there he was, still Nicholas Greene, albeit a bit more grey and a touch more cynical. By then, he’d been knighted, celebrated far and wide, but his views had scarcely shifted. He still dismissed the work of contemporary writers, claiming that true artistry was a relic of the past. Tennyson, Carlyle – all of them, to Greene, were mere shadows of former greatness. Greene now praised writers of the earlier periods, such as Dryden, Pope, and Addison. It seems that critics only begin to appreciate artists long after they’re gone, as if their brilliance can only be understood in hindsight.
For me, though, Greene’s views no longer held sway. I realised that art was something personal, something that grew alongside me. I no longer needed his approval – or anyone else’s. I had finally come to trust my own voice, to see my art as a reflection of my own journey, not a response to society’s whims or a critic’s praise.
Gil: Did he finally respect your work, though, after all that time?
Orlando: Oddly enough, yes. He praised my poem, The Oak Tree, as worthy of publication. But by that point, I had learned to appreciate my art outside the bounds of external approval. The Oak Tree was mine; it was something personal, something that reflected my growth, my struggles, and my joys. Greene’s endorsement felt almost incidental. My art had moved beyond his critique; it was rooted in my own truth. Writing had become a constant companion, helping me make sense of life itself.
Gil: If you could sum up all these centuries of experience in art, what would you conclude?
Orlando: Looking back, I see that art has been less a destination and more a path, winding through every moment of my life. It has shown me that each era, each transformation, has left its mark on me, as ink leaves its stain on paper. Art, I’ve found, is not about perfection or grand themes; it’s about resilience. It’s about returning to the page, again and again, with all my doubts and longings.
I’ve learned that art lets us sit with our own humanity. It’s a mirror that shows our greatness, our perfections, but also reflecting us as we are in all our contradictions. In the end, art is my oldest companion, my most enduring love – a quiet voice that calls me back to myself. I realise now that it was never the applause I was after; it was simply this journey. To create, to feel, to connect – these are what matter. If I’ve gained anything in all these centuries, it’s the wisdom to let my art complete me, even if we both are incomplete. In that acceptance, I’ve found my own kind of peace.
At a Glance:
Art = Self-validation (Literary critiques, Gender) + Solitude → Appreciation.
Orlando found his authentic art through time. Encounters with literary critiques taught him the irrelevance of external approval, and his gender change revealed that creating art to satisfy others held no value. He embraced self-validation through solitude, creating art that cherishes life’s small, fleeting beauties.
© Journal of Creativity and Inspiration.
Image © Gil Dekel.
ChatGPT is an AI language model by OpenAI, designed to assist and engage users through natural, conversational responses, using text-based data.
Gil Dekel is a doctor in Art, Design and Media, specialising in processes of creativity and inspiration. He is a scholar, designer, visionary artist, Reiki Master/Teacher, and co-author of the ‘Energy Book’. Dr. Dekel is an Associate Lecturer at the Open University. In 2022 he was awarded the Queen Elizabeth II Platinum Jubilee Coin, in recognition of his dedication and commitment to pastoral work in the UK.
