On "getting the art out"
/To begin this project, I wanted to start off by talking about why I like this idea of "getting the art out" and also by asking other folks what they think about it.
I placed that quote in a prominent position because when I read it for the first time, I realized that it exactly described my own fear. I realized that I harbor this weird, underlying anxiety that I might find myself at the end of my life never having created, never having built anything that was mine. It sounds over-the-top when I write it like that, but I swear the relief I felt was real, when it occurred to me that I have a choice in the matter. And so I begin.
I was curious to learn what others might think of this concept, so I reached out to a bunch of people from various parts of my life to see if they would be willing to share their thoughts. The prompt I provided and responses* I received are shown below:
“It’s sad when people leave the world without ever getting their art out of their heads. I picture older people on their deathbed with all of their art still in them; I think that’s a big tragedy. ” — Josh Long
When I read this quote from The Great Discontent’s interview with Josh Long, it struck me. I realized that I wasn't doing a great job of “getting the art out” in my own daily life. If you would like, please take a few sentences to share your reaction (if any) after reading this quote.
Contributed by Katie Rice
"This quote also struck me. I think of myself as a writer and a writer is an artist, so I think about the balance between work and life and art all the time. I work a 9-to-5 job that’s pretty flexible and pretty great in terms of 9-to-5 desk jobs but if I could I would spend my time writing and reading. When I graduated college I somehow thought time would open up for me and I would spend all of my evenings writing and my weekends in cafes scribbling away in a Moleskine notebook or something. It’s a lot harder to make time for writing after a 40 hour work week, errands, working out (if I’m ambitious ha) and the daily NYC commute than I thought it would be. I think it is all of the daily stuff that keeps people from exploring all of the art they have inside of them and it is a tragedy. I notice a difference in how I feel emotionally when I’m making time for writing and when I’m not. I feel better when I’m creating something.
Everyone has a story to tell and I think it is supremely important that they tell that story, or “get the art out of their heads.” In The Things We Carried by Tim O’Brien, he writes a lot about the necessity for soldiers to tell the story of their time in the Vietnam War. His narrator says, “By telling stories, you objectify your own experience. You separate it from yourself. You pin down certain truths. You make up others.” Leaving behind your story, understanding your story and making art of it: that’s how I think you survive this life."
Contributed by a friend :)
"I'll start with an embarrassing personal moment.
I was, let's say, 13 years old. And I was having a hard time. It is difficult to say what was wrong exactly but I think the best diagnosis would be puberty. After a variety of melodramatic, parent-bating behaviors (which I no longer remember the details of) my folks sat me down for a talk. Me on a couch, them facing me with a bright window behind them. I could barely see their faces. It was out first formal discussion about feelings. Or rather, my feelings. Disastrous.
My father said, "So what's wrong. Why are you miserable."
I was immediately at a loss. Both my parents were sitting and listening to me. This was my opportunity to tell them everything that was wrong with the world and with me. I felt pressure building up inside my body, inside my brain. What was wrong? How could I explain it? I couldn't put it into words. I panicked. I opened my mouth and gave myself over to whatever answer might pop out.
I burst out in a wail: "I just have all these stories in my head! They'll never get out!"
Dead silence. My father turned to my mother. "Forget it. She's fine." He walked out of the room. After a minute of further silence, she followed suit. I was left on the couch, feeling like a ripe fool. I had said what was true, but in a way that utterly failed to communicate the terrible enormity of it.
Eleven years later, I feel I can see it all again from my parents' eyes; their daughter, sitting on the couch, wailing about stories. How unapproachable the confession must have seemed. (I was their first kid, and they were too far from their own teenage years, I think.) How intimate and therefore, embarrassing. And maybe, also, how irrelevant. But it wasn't really irrelevant. It was the opposite of irrelevant. It was everything. It was the violent epiphany of my own finite being. It was my first attempt to articulate that I might have the potential to do something in this world, something big and "artistic" and beautiful - something unique to my perspective, to my voice. And with that daring inkling, that first compulsion to burst outward and leave a mark upon the world, there also came doubt. Fear. Certainty of failure. All born from that first, pubescent moment when you realize that your life is not endless, your self is not limitless -- and therefore, your ideas are finite, your canvas is finite, your time is finite, your means to create must be entirely your own, and how will you do it anyway? This is why I was genuinely miserable. Well, this and brain chemistry.
"Getting the art out," to use Josh's phrase, was daunting at 13, and it is still daunting at 24. I'm getting the art out where and when I can. I've been standing at the edge of the Philly "broke-ass" theater scene pretty much since graduating, watching what people are doing in the middle. Every year I stride a little closer to the center. But what does that mean for my day job? Or sleeping? Or my love life? Or my sanity, really. My parents aren't the audience anymore. It's friends, strangers, Philly, the tri-state area, the world -- and cynical ME. Worry-central. Is it worth it, so that Josh Long doesn't find me on my deathbed, and say "it's sad" while I feel my head full of ideas that are going to die with me? Just so I don't disappoint 13-year-old me?
I don't know. I don't know. I think the most I can do is decide, "this idea touches me, this project is important to me," and calculate my personal economy of health, wealth and finite time around that choice. At 24, really, taking one project at a time is enough; and maybe the most sane thing I can do.
After writing out all of this, (and... yikes, re-reading it), I think I have this thought to add in response to Josh Long's quote: Be joyous for the art you do get out. Be joyous, be proud, whatever floats your boat. It's okay if some of it dies with you. It's okay to focus on just living sometimes. Take it all one project at at time, and feel good about what you're doing. However I might self-mythologize the weird, dire, universal moment of being 13, I was making myself freaking miserable with the caps-lock TRAGEDY and IMPORTANCE of it all. So don't be 13 about it. Be 20-something, and work it out one project at a time."
* I will add additional responses as I receive them.