capital A "Artists" and other things that suck
capital A "Artists" and other things that suck
someday i'll stop talking solely about creativity vs capitalism and stuff but please indulge me for now
Tonight I have a standup show at 9pm, and I’m riddled with anxiety. I’m always riddled with anxiety about these shows before I do them. I remember the first time I did standup outside of college, right after graduation, and I spent basically the entire day curled in a ball on the floor before I went down to the venue. It has gotten better over time, but whatever leftover nervous voices I have continuously ask me the question: do you really enjoy something that you get anxious about 90% of the time you think about it?
Overall, I’m against making any sort of decisions based on my anxiety, because I have the horrifying superpower of being able to get anxious about anything I consider at all. It’s the base coat of paint that I cover my perspective with. It’s how I always feel writing this newsletter, even. Does anyone give a fuck? Do I suck? What’s the point?
I find that question to be the most dangerous one for me: “What’s the point?” I witness that question like a huge wave, that grows the longer I look at it. When it crashes into me, I’m thrust off of my surfboard and into the sea.
Cynicism is an ugly feeling. Dangerous for anyone, but I find that as a creative person, it’s a cancer to my spirit. When the weight of the capitalist gas in the atmosphere dampens my posture and drags my footsteps, I ask “What’s the point of…” another doodle in my notebook or scene in my pilot. What am I doing for the world right now by turning my mind’s drivel into pixels and blasting it through a subscriber list?
A dedication to being “the kind of person” who paints and writes and performs, even at only the smallest, most insignificant level, feels like a revolt against the popular idea that existing itself is only worthwhile so far as it turns a profit. But despite my best efforts at re-education, that idea can still feel convincing. When the wave of “What’s the point?” crashes over me, and I see the metric tons of water above me, I wonder: if I were to open my mouth and speak, and the ideas made by my head were trapped into bubbles and rose to the surface, what would they add to the atmosphere by breaking to air?
I thought the key to happiness would be unlocked by dismantling my desires for success and achievement. After a few months releasing myself of all pressure to write and produce, I realized that I still had a desire to work towards my goals anyway, because life has to be about doing something, right? But now, with process intact but my goals vague, I ask myself: if not for capitalist achievement, where are the pursuits of even one's innermost passions to lead us? Why accomplish anything at all? If the journey itself is the destination, what if I feel claustrophobic, trapped in the Honda Odyssey map-questing across purgatory?
The dangerous part about self identifying as an artistic entity, and living in a society that so easily presents cynicism as a logical outcome to existing at all, is that when I get frustrated with any given creative pursuit: when my doodles look childish, my music jarring, my writing inconclusive; when a good performance feels out of reach, when there’s more effort in front of me than reward at the end; when I get tired of the fruits of what human beings can do that no other being can (create), then I wonder what humanity has left to motivate me with. What uglier feeling could exist than to be exhausted by beauty itself?
At the end of the day, whatever racing, cynical thoughts plague my head, the gratitude I have towards a creative mind is that it views this state as a problem to solve. Not a finished painting, but a canvas waiting to be changed.
How would I survive a road trip across purgatory? The drives I’ve done through the monotonous American landscape have always been aided by the company in the car, and its playlists of music I haven’t heard before. The detours to see the world’s largest ball of string, and to pick up a stupid T-shirt in a town I won’t remember the name of a month later. Taking a nap to the white noise of a conversation between people I simultaneously love, and am bored of. Stretching. A song I’ve heard a million times before, but not quite this way, captures me before I drift away.
Could it be so simple after all? To provide the big questions with small answers? To savor the details, the moments, the baby steps? What of being a Capital-A-Artist? Following your intrinsic purpose? Could it be more noble to simply be a good passenger?
P.S. Just got back from doing the show. I really enjoyed it; can’t wait to do it again.