The Selfish Artist

Note: I don’t class writing as separate from art. An art is an art, regardless of medium. Where I say ‘art’ the word is all-encompassing. This piece is about problems which affects all art forms and artists — including writing and writers.

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My art is not for you.

I am a very selfish artist. All I create, I create for an audience of me. All I put out for public consumption is a small selection. A small part of this is the struggle to be vulnerable, another small part is disdain of anyone knowing me so intimately or thoroughly, yet another small part is not understanding why so many should have access to so much of me. My prose, poetry, drawings, paintings, photos — all of it: none is for you.

This is not the way to success.

I still don’t understand what is success, is my problem. I don’t measure it in views, dollars, feedback. But these are the measures I am told that rates success. Success, for me, is accomplishment in the process and creation. Success is satisfaction in what I have created. When I think of success, I think of the ongoing, neverending progression and refinement of what I create. I both smash and fine tune whatever my hands may produce through writing, through drawing, through photography. Some days, there is no success. Other days, the art is not quite where it should be. But on some days, I create what I am proud of; despite quality.

Sharing is wonderful, otherwise we wouldn’t do it. Connecting is a human thing — a shared trait of most living things. Recognition is nice when it comes your way or mine. So much effort and thought put into art, it’s good to place it out into the world and see how it fares. To speak with others on their process or to hear the thoughts of the audience (your own or others) of the reception and consumption of such works.

To create is to be human.

I want to live a quiet existence of creation: horticulture, writing, visual arts, baking, home brewed inks. If there was no money to worry over, this is how my time would be allocated. With a few loved ones close by, coastal ecosystems to explore, and a few cats and dogs in the home with chickens in the yard. Living, creating, breathing — these are the only things I want out of life.

So I must measure my success by others’ standards. I must try to market and monetize myself; my self put on display, a commodity. I don’t live an unexamined life but I don’t wish for it to be examined by others. I want my thoughts for myself. I want my strange ideas and eerie images to remain clutched to my chest. So I do, for now. I keep the bizarre to myself both from selfishness and in understanding that in the online world today it could land me with an unwarranted ban. But the latter is just an excuse to use to keep my art to myself for myself since that is its primary purpose anyway: to entertain me.

Art is also exorcism.

When you live with chronic nightmares and periodic sleep paralysis, there is much your mind will conjure to press the boundaries of your patience and comfort. When you live with intrustive thoughts from a young age and understand that they are simply thoughts, the distress creeps up on you until it’s just as overbearing — the signal is as supressed as the problem. Ignore your thoughts too long and they escalate. So you handle it by drawing and writing; pressing it into something pretty if grotsque. The act of creation is how you break the cursed mantra so you can get some sleep with surrealist, dada-ist dreams.

My art is my comfort and discomfort. I share the comfort — mostly. I (usually) keep the discomfort in its paper and ink manifested form, filed away in folders on shelves and devices.

It is a curse to sell your secrets and internal worlds.

But that’s how we live now. We are pushed to sell our problems either for profit or for protection from the dog piling of digitized strangers. The more personal you get, the more views and currency; monetary or social. And suffer the consequences if you are caught being insincere or in a lie. You will be punished either way, but the backlash is worse if you fall from the audience’s pedestal and expectations. If before you were supposed to kill the authentic self in order to gain the income and fame you wanted (deserved or not), you now need to be authentic or fabricate the authenticity — but don’t you dare break the illusion you or the audience constructed. God help you if you shred their delusion.

What do you do when you want privacy but the days of benefactors for the (truly) poor artist is gone?

You can’t. You turn into a commodity. You expose yourself. You expose your thoughts, your wants, your needs, your embarrassments. You beg and scramble and flounder in a public forum. It’s demeaning; doing what paparazzi do but no one actually cares because you are a nobody.

I’m ok with being a nobody. But I also want to live. I want to not worry over bills or groceries and I don’t want to feel bad for not being able to take care of my mama or my friends. I can offer all the emotional support in the world, but it doesn’t pay your best friend’s rent when they’re short due to a vet bill or needing new brakes so they can get to their job. Not having to worry about money is a rich person’s leisure. So while I still make the art I want to make, I have to present it and myself in a marketable way.

And this is why I fail: my resentment for the system pokes hard at my issues with authority so I react as a child would when told I can’t do something. I cannot keep up a manufactured personality or give all of myself away. I know I have to, but because I have to I stubbornly refuse to.

So I am a selfish artist, to my delight and detriment.

Do not follow my example. Do take joy in pride in your work and do the type of work you want, but do treat it as a job if you want to make money off of it. You need to compromise and sometimes follow formulas. To live your life only making art you want in the exact way you want is what the wealthy can do — it’s not for people like you and me. But always make time to make the art that brings you the most joy, no matter which career you have.

Life’s too short to not enjoy all the little joys we can.

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Thank you for reading my thoughts on creating, the commodification of self, and on the current state of careers in all areas of the arts.

A tip is never expected, but always appreciated. Discussion and sharing this goes a long way, as well. Regardless, thank you for the support.