(Ok, this is about writing and art, not OWS. But I think it's relevant and you might enjoy reading it and it's just been gathering dust on my hard drive for months at this point. And I wanted to share my brilliance because I have an unimaginably large but delicate ego that needs constant feeding. So anyway:)
So, I asked myself this evening, “Self, why are you doing
this? Why are you getting so worked up about Art and its workings and how to
work it?”
It’s not that I talk to myself out of misplaced megalomania.
I know exactly where my megalomania
is, thank you. (Right here, next to me, purring…)
No, I like to think that it focuses me, this whole talking
to myself thing. I am a captive audience, and sometimes it is useful having an
audience when facing the daunting monolith of Art. And this whole
writing-publishing-making-selling/out Art-Thing
is really complicated for me, especially as I haven’t been able to define art,
let alone why I did it and why I want to keep doing it and what makes it work
(for me).
Why am I trying to make Art?
Is it the human animal’s selfish, terrified response to its
own cold mortality and the desire to somehow live forever in song or story or
graffiti? (“Look on my artistic works, ye literati, and despair!”)
Is it the need to share a fragment of what is going on in
one’s own head with someone else? To communicate something more than the distant
location of ripening fruit, to manage interpersonal power imbalances and spread
cultural survival memes using symbols that are inherently both priceless and
have no specified value? (“I’ll show you
my epiphany if you show me yours.”)
Do I want validation from my betters, do I want eyeballs
from my peers, do I want money from, well, everyone? Especially Hollywood? (“Fame
and fortune, fortune and fame!”)
Flail. Tremble. Retreat. Remember. Repeat.
Back in my first year at college when I lived a rich and quirky
virtual life on Lambda Moo (which was sort of a free, text-based Second Life),
I think my favorite hobby was collecting souls. I was neither an agent for
Heaven nor Hell, and I never bought anything.
But if someone was willing to give
me their electric soul, I would care for it respectfully. I added their user name
to my list with the same sense of sacred trust that the wrinkled but purposeful
museum curator has when he dusts the exhibit cases in the older rooms with the
dark wood paneling and hand-lettered notes.
In the here and now, I love it when people trust me with
their imagination and time; I think it is probably the closest reality equivalent
to a swappable soul. Both situations give me the same good feeling of being
part of a community that respects and encourages my cleverness, anyway.
For all that starving artists are caricatured as living
lives of lonely isolation, it seems to me that the most interesting art comes
from communities: Warhol wasn’t painting in a vacuum, the Inklings nurtured the
creators of both Middle Earth and Narnia, the Algonquin Round Table is as
fabled as King Arthur’s.
I’ve been part of many online communities, and the hosts are
often asked how they did it by people who would like to copy their success in a
repeatable, lucrative way. I think the Why is just as interesting as the How.
Why are people drawn to like-minded souls, and why do we invest our time and
eyeballs and even money to participate in healthy, happy communities of
invisible friends?
I don’t know. Maybe we are all lonely artists, starving for something
more than ripe fruit. I don’t know what the big Want is or where it came from.
But the little wants are easier to confront, somehow, after I acknowledge I
write in the shadow of the big one.
Why do I want an audience? Why not make Art just for myself
and not worry about the ways and means of publication?
I know my creative impulse is not satisfied by writing my
words and putting them away in a drawer. I honor Emily Dickinson, even though
no one knew about her poetry until she was dead. Her words are not less without
her.
But with her living presence, might they have been more? She
gave the future everything but herself.
For myself, I want to imagine a thousand futures and worlds
and ever-afters. I want to get swept up into the hero’s epic journey. But I
don’t want to be lonely; I want to go with friends.
I want to make Art in front of others because if you trust
me with a piece of your mind, then we will both
go there and back again. We will live-- for a brief but shining moment—forever.
Together.
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