The topic drifting through this week's zeitgeist de blog seems to be the way in which some writers glorify artists to the exclusion of all other groups. One writer's name has come up as a chief purveyor of this idea. I agree that he does go to that place rather often, but he's certainly not the only one who does. In fact, I'd say there's a cult of the artiste in certain quarters, an enshrinement of creativity almost unto godhood. These seem to be some of the same folks who believe that suffering for their art is necessary to being a true artist, amongst the highest callings of mankind, confusing doing art with the myth of those who sacrifice themselves for the greater good—your hooly blisful martirs of the paintbrush, fiddle, and pen.
I understand where this comes from: doing art sometimes feels like a me-against-the-world proposition. On top of struggling to learn how to do your art well, you also sometimes have to fight for the opportunity to do it, overcome derision and discouragement, struggle to find time for it, struggle to balance art with life. Yeah, it is hard sometimes. But if you have to do it, you will find a way, and when you're doing it and in the zone, none of that other stuff really matters. Even if it's just a little something on the side to keep yourself sane, you will find a way because the art is a part of your truest self. If you have any self-regard whatsoever, you will find a way of expressing that, and that expression will bring you personal satisfaction. Joy, even. It's a wonderful counterbalance to the struggle, and if people are not achieving that counterbalance, then perhaps they need to examine their reasons for doing art more closely.
When I compare the struggle of artists to do art with, for instance, the suffering of a woman in Darfur trying keep her family fed and getting raped in the process, I quickly lose sympathy with anyone claiming to be suffering for their art. History and the movies are full of examples of suffering artists—their stories are so much more fun to dramatize than, say, the life of plumbers who live and die in middle-class comfort. But I don't think anyone would seriously argue that plumbers are any less important to the world than colorful ol' Vinnie Van Gogh. I mean, really, who you gonna call when your toilet backs up?
But maybe some people just can't float their boat without putting it in dramatic and desperate terms. Maybe they think they are somehow letting down the home team if they're not in the trenches fighting the good fight. Dictators, after all, hate independent artists because independent artists tend to have independent thoughts about despots, and possess a striking means of making those contrary opinions visible and concrete to the rest of society. Art can be deeply subversive, the enemy of repressive regimes everywhere, as well as fat cat government. Countless artists have been burned, hanged, or jailed for decades for expressing themselves truly. In the laissez-faire democratic parts of the world, perhaps some artists feel as if they've been cheated of their opportunity to sacrifice themselves for the good of society.
And so, the cult of the artiste is born: where vision is so much clearer in artists than in plumbers; where pain is a daily part of the drive to create; where "normalcy" is a kind of disease and artists hold the only antidote.
I dunno. I'm just happy for the little space of time I can carve out for myself every day; for the ability to put words on a page and keep rearranging them until they increase their shine; for the ineluctable light in my mind that insists that I follow it home.
Random quote of the day:
-We suffer on earth, so that we can be happy in another place.
-Why? Why? Why?
-Let us only be happy. There, and here.
—Tanith Lee, Saint Fire
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