I love making things. I also love attention. Luckily for me, those two tend to go hand in hand pretty well in this world. The JK Rowling’s to the Wes Anderson’s to the Robin Williams’s of this world all found fame in creation. To quote the latter of the three, “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.” I believe the same goes for film, theatre, photography, animation, or any other art form out there.
Yet there are times when I kick myself in the foot and call myself a pretentious ass for saying things like that. Because when it comes down to it, there is nothing, nothing, that makes an artist more valuable than a doctor, a lawyer, a business manager, an engineer, or the guy at your local gas station. The only difference is that they, unlike the artist, are providing a necessary service to the world. You may argue that art is the food to the soul or whatever, but if you’re in an economic recession and you have to choose between a permanent Spotify subscription and an infinite amount of Chipotle burritos, I bet I know which one you’d take. And yet artists like to consider themselves special, simply because some people claim they were moved by something they made.
Artists are children who never grew up. We don’t know how to take one for the team, put our ego aside, and contribute to society like a normal person. Instead, we scream and we cry like we did when we were young, hoping someone will take notice. There’s always been people like this, the one’s who find the nearest soapbox, hop on top, and scream “Hey! Look at me! I’m important! I have important things to say!” And every single person on this planet, artist or not, has that dream of fame, of recognition. Only some decide to try and make it our daily living. And with the creation of the internet, there’s more and more of us. Everyone has a blog these days, or a photography portfolio, or a flash drive with that story they just quite haven’t gotten around to finishing yet. There’s more and more voices crying out for somebody, anybody, to care about what they think, what they can do. I believe being an artist for a living is one of the most selfish and vain things there is, and only the luckiest sons of bitches ever find a way to make it work. Still, here I am, finding yet one more way to call myself an “artist.”
I understand the stupidity of it all, and yet I pray I’m not lying to myself when I say it’s about more than just the recognition, the hope of fame, the constant need to polish my own self esteem with the compliments of others. There is something about the simple, beautiful, almost humble act of creation that has always drawn me in. The part of creating that is done for the simple act of the thing itself, regardless of who does or does not see it. And perhaps it is selfish to think I deserve to pursue a life filled with the joy and fulfillment art brings me. But so what? When I die, I will have lived no one’s life other than my own, I might as well make sure it’s a life I enjoy. So here I go, back up on the soapbox. If you care to stick around, I have some things I’d like to say.
trolleyproblem 