TIME AND THE ARTIST

Being an “artist.”

I’ve always wanted to address what this means to me- the topic of being an artist, somewhat seriously.

Or rather, just speak a bit about my perspective on it. What it’s like- to live a life mostly dedicated to artistic pursuits.

I guess it’s always boiled down to three things for me- Curiosity, dedication, and experimentation. There are more factors, of course, but a holy trinity will serve us well for now.

And, in my humble opinion, one last very important thing- but, foreplay is often underrated.

I’ve always been a curious one, you see. My entire life I’ve loved stories and books. Usually obtained from public libraries or good-will piles, and mostly because this was the most reliable and cost-efficient way I had of getting my hands on some answers- for all the burning questions.

Yes, I proudly bore the annoying but-why badge as a child.

But, over a long period of time, something interesting began to happen to me. The answers I found, served to only raise more questions. This was both a very vexing, but very fascinating discovery to my young and developing brain.

And in the wake of an ever growing pile of books citing heavily subjective and sometimes contradictory information, I decided to do the only thing really left to do. I had to go out into the world and get some answers of my own by trying things. By experimenting.

And I think that’s when it began; my life as an artist.

PART 1: IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED

I went on to try a few different disciplines. Illustration, music, craft, photography, dance, all with varying degrees of interest, investment, and success. In some of these, I gained some basic level of proficiency. Others I dropped before I had even put forth an honest, worthwhile effort. And some just did not jive with me(I’m a terrible sculptor).

And I’m now unashamed to say I’ve failed at almost all of my artistic pursuits over the course of my short life, but it’s never daunted me from trying things. I’m still that curious little boy. Constantly badgering his parents with question after question.

Look at what I’m trying now.

To this day, I always seek to satisfy my need for answers. What would it be like to pick up guitar again? Or painting? Or philosophy ? Or salsa?

I’m always wondering.

And through that process I found that I could only call ever myself an artist when I was writing.

Writing has always felt like the freedom to wonder. Like trying to answer the questions that, granted, I usually only posed to myself- but the efforts always seemed to yield something worthwhile. It was only logical to make that extra leap past the natural human propensity toward fear of judment, self-absorption, and narcissism and assume that others would be asking themselves some of the same questions too.

A reach, I know.

That’s what being an artist became, in my eyes. Seeing how many of life’s questions I can answer through a process of experimentation. Trial and error. And I try to be very dedicated to this process. To the striving… sometimes at the cost of all else.

It’s a very distinctive pull- the need to- and this is what I’ve come to equate art with- and that is the recreation of a personal success. Past or present. Maybe future? Once you get a taste for it. It’s hard to not want to do it again.

PART 2: THE ARTIST

I’ve always been fascinated with the relationship between an artist, his art, and the people who consume it. To those of you reading right now, or watching, or listening… What do you feel? Will you tell me?

There has been this romanticization in recent years of “the artist” by modern society. He or she is always portrayed as this misunderstood misanthrope with a strong drive and passion towards “chasing/making their dreams come true” or “doing the thing they love”- or something equally vague, yet mildly positive.

They’re always pictured as uncompromising and singular in their vision. A genius. The rest of us mere mortals could only begin to scratch at the complexity of such a being. Blah blah blah.

I never hear about the obsessive, compulsive, addicting aspect of being an artist from anyone other than artists themselves. 

So I thought I’d talk about my experiences with that.

Expound on the “tortured” bit a little more.

I, and many like me, believe that being an artist is a bit of a tragic twist of fate. Compelled as I am to spend hours hunched over a desk in a small room, making imaginary people have interactions with each other rather than, oh I don’t know… Going out into daylight and interacting with real people like a normal fucking human being. 

Having this almost obsessive need to recreate success, often without even defining it first, has been my curse as an artist.

Time and time again, I choose this fate. Often because I know the alternative will kill me, if not physically, then mentally and spiritually.

I find being an artist is to find the company of those who ask no questions and seek no answers, unbearable.

It is as much a hindrance to social understanding as it is a precursor to it. I think for a while I existed in this paradoxical world where I often sought answers about the world in everything but the people who shared in it with me.

I had to come to terms about how little is openly said about the tenuous, constantly fractured state of mind that comes from being someone like this.

PART 3: THE BEST TEACHER

Finally, we come to it, what I think truly makes an artist. And it’s so simple that I’ll admit, I laughed maniacal tears when I found that I was, in fact, a n “artist.”

I only discovered this through a lengthy process involving a lot of curiosity, some experimentation, and an above average level of dedication. And, If I was being unkind to myself , I could even get away with calling it an obsession. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with this. With writing. With (re)creating success. I know that there is more to life, so much more, and I live(d) a full life. Or at least I try.

But always, on a quiet morning, or a lonely night… I am here again. Hunched over a low light, transcribing my thoughts on paper or screen.

Why?

Because I can’t think or breathe properly otherwise.

Because, for some reason- I am compelled to jot these thoughts and feelings down rather than say them aloud.

And because the answer to that question would be as complex as it would be irrelevant anyway.

The simple fact of the matter is, time, makes the artist.

Not his art.

With time, I think I found myself as an artist. As a writer.

I found my reason to create. Lost as I used to be, in all my questions, I needed more time than most to ripen, to become myself. Because there are an infinite number of questions. The more I realize that, the more they eventually cease to matter.

All that matters is how I choose to live.

And the feeling.

As I age, I still ask more and more questions. I’ve discovered that many of the answers are almost never what I expect them to be, once I give them an honest and worthwhile try. Though I am always happy to seek more and more, especially as I find myself understanding less and less. I’ve had to push away assumptions. There are no right or wrong answers.

And it is my firm belief that, while craft can be learned, being an artist is innate. A byproduct of something very loud, constantly demanding your attention. And figuring this out cannot be taught. I know that we’ve each got to hear the voice in the noise on our own.

And after copious amounts of mistakes, setbacks, and gnashing of teeth- something just clicked for me.

And I find myself learning, and realizing that even more so than life, time is the artist’s best teacher.