The end of the world—yes, this we discuss—just not the fact that it’s our fault. That sentiment, spoken aloud in a group setting, would necessarily bring all other political conversation to a halt.
Humanity is predictable, destructive, and probably not deserving of salvation. Of course, life isn’t about 'deserve', everybody knows that. But but but. If why we try so hard to save ourselves is nothing more than a (very strong) genetic impulse, how can there ever be any art in it? People create art, but life is itself artless. And don’t you cough up that dust-bunny of a cliché: “Living well is an art”. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? Too bad it isn’t true—at least, not as an axiom. It should be: “If you’re lucky, living well can be an art”. 'Living well' is a combination of good luck and brain chemistry. If you strike the words “good” and “well” from that sentence, that’s life, in a nutshell, for every creature that has ever lived.
Given that one accepts some approximation of my statements as true—maybe you’re a little more hopeful, or confident than I am, but still not quite married to the idea that people have 100% control over their personal fortunes and failures—how are we to go on creating as artists? If the art we create, at best, embellishes a neutral existence, why do we work so hard to nail it to the walls? How can we continue to hang the drapes when the house is crumbling around us?
In the words of Melvin Udall, “People who speak in metaphors oughta shampoo my crotch.”
Really, I don’t care. I mean, I care that there's at least a bit of suck in everything, in as much as that knowledge doesn’t make things in my life suck any less. And, I’d much rather that nothing sucked for anyone, ever. But I try not to waste time caring (too much) about whether or not my art is having a positive impact on culture, or on the world. The single most influential cultural artifact ever, if such a thing exists, will eventually crumble and be forgotten in the face of the quintessentially impersonal and infinite physics of the universe. (I can hear Werner Herzog’s voice-over for this scene: “Ze greatest accomplishments of man vill be as meaningless as dust in ze cold dahkness of ze void.”)
I make art because making art gives me pleasure. It’s an emotional bonus—and potentially a financial one, so I’m told—if the art I make pleases others, too.
Also, because I do possess a sense of ethics, I try really hard not to hurt anyone with my art—even though if I do, they probably deserve it, & esp. even though many famous writers have made their names by systematically dissecting other people and pinning up their entrails, in an artistic medium tantamount to public forum.
I bring all of this up because I am currently writing a torturous short piece about my family (with all of the names changed, including my own). To clarify for my acquaintances: this is a story about the side of my family that I am deliberately out of contact with. It is torturous for me to write this story because it deals with a personal psychology which I have been running away from ever since I figured out that running was the thing to do in the face of this beast—modern psychology be damned. I am putting up with this torture because I realized that the details of a certain especially painful two weeks of my life could make for an interesting tale. However, it will also be torturous for a member or two of my family (if it ever sees the light of day), since it was written specifically to create the artistic spectacle of a practiced writer skewering subjects he is unfairly familiar with.
You may notice the faint whiff of guilt emanating from that last sentence. I am “skewering”, and it’s “unfair”. Now, it’s true that I am remembering and writing these experiences through a biased, dark lens, and that I wince a little when I think of how upset one particular person would be if she ever read this story. She wouldn’t care who else had read it, she would just be very hurt to find out what I really think of her. Maybe. But, I still might only find it to be unfair in the artistic sense; in other words, I did not create this story, this very engaging story, out of whole cloth—I have, for the most part, been cataloguing (rather accurately, I like to think) the past actions of myself and other people.
Well, and this isn’t entirely true, either. My creativity, the fact that I am creating, is evident in the way I tell the story—not just the minor fictionalizations and embellishments, but the tone, the themes, the signature of my style all indicate that there is a unique, biased personality speaking. It’s a tale—meant to amuse, to depress, to argue—to create emotion, if possible—rather than a mere document, meant only to inform. So, it isn’t artistically unfair as a whole, unless I market it as fiction.
I am, in fact, going to market the story as fiction. One reason for this is that I would like to cause less damage. Less, not 'as little as possible'; for that, I would have to publish under a pseudonym. I have considered this option, and rejected it. Bad for my writing career. Besides, my full name has that great, stentorian, 'Writer' thing going for it. Daniel Thomas Boucher. See?
Despite my guilt, and despite the fact that I may indeed hurt a sort-of family member with this piece of art, I’m plowing ahead. The story’s almost complete, and I’m going to try really, really, hard to get it published.
What, did you think I’d relive one of the worst traumas of my adulthood just for kicks?
Here’s the thing: people may find that the filthy muck of your regrets is quite interesting, if you know how to write about it (and I’m still not sure that I do). It is a rare gift—and I mean “gift” in the strictest sense: egoless, unearned—to be able to view your own past objectively enough to pick out the bits that are interesting to the average reader. Great emotional turmoil can make for exceptional art; examples of this are so abounding that I didn’t even have to refer to them just then, because you already agree with me. However, simply relating every aspect of a specific turmoil you’ve suffered through is not art—it’s whining. If you can capture misery in an interesting way, without whining about it, you have the potential to entertain millions.
However, I don’t believe the genesis of our fascination with other’s problems is simply that “misery loves company”, or that it feels good to know others have it worse than you—except maybe when it comes to the way misery is filleted, grilled, and served on a paper plate to daytime talk show audiences. I actually think it has a lot more to do with the fact that our difficulties highlight our differences; sometimes, yes, we see the kinds of differences that keep us lobbing (actual, and figurative) missiles at each other; at other times, we may see the differences we like, the ones that make us uniquely, quirkily human. We like to re-assure ourselves that we matter, that we have an effect on the world. One (good?) way to accomplish this is to outline the boundaries that keep us separated.
Don’t get me wrong. I am not writing this pained, humorlessly dysfunctional family story as a favor to my readers—not that I have readers to do favors for. I am not implying that my short fiction will change your perspective on humanity. In fact, I am not even claiming that my artistic contribution in any way excuses me from launching a very emotional, and potentially very public assault on certain members of my family, including one who isn’t even around to defend himself.
I freely admit my guilt. Je regrette rien!. If my primary concern was not to hurt anyone, I would take the story in progress as a healthy bit of therapy, give it a tidy ending, and leave it on my flash drive to read over from time to time. Unfortunately, when it comes to creating, whom I might be hurting is not my primary concern. Without putting too much thought into it, I feel like it comes fifth or sixth, after word-craft, thematic cohesion, believability, voice, and marketability. I guess it would depend on who I thought might get hurt.
I have no problems sleeping at night after making art like this, as long as I’ve been writing for the sake of writing, rather than for revenge, or justice, or…you get the drift. The jury's still out on whether I'll have problems sleeping if my careless, hurtful words ever result in a paycheck.
Notice that I am not making off with a valid moral point like a thief in the night by claiming that art doesn’t really hurt anybody. 'Sticks and stones'? That childhood rhyme pisses me off, when I think about it now. Was it our parents that brainwashed us with that hooey? Helooooo, Gen X? Did our parents’ parents say that to them, too? It’s total crap, people. Words can totally be used as weapons, especially when you know your target’s weak spots.
If you know that Melinda is sensitive about her weight, and you start addressing her as “fat-ass”, you don’t get to claim that she’s responsible for feeling hurt by your insensitivity. It’s true that a person can, with training, learn to “ignore” negative speech directed at them, but that doesn’t change the fact that you struck, with intent to harm. This would be roughly analogous to shooting someone in the chest and then blaming them for dying because they didn’t know enough to wear a Kevlar vest when standing near you. Still—there will always be those who claim that you’ve spilled blood, when you’ve done nothing more than share your thoughts.
I’m also not making the argument that the end justifies the means; the one universal attribute every fictional villain seems to share is that they believe that ends justify means. People tend to think of that as ‘evil’, and I am no exception. I’m not saying that it’s okay to hurt people, because "Hey, you didn't mean to, and at least you’ve created art". Even the most seemingly innocuous thing can hurt someone if you do it enough; and even if artfulness won’t necessarily guarantee that you live well, it can at least help you to be more deliberte--more aware of what effect you have on others.
In any case, if I worried about who I might be hurting every time I wrote a story, I would never be able to write a story again. The same goes for you, if you replace “write a story” with the appropriate verb and noun for whatever artistic outlet you pursue. This was Dave Chappelle’s stated reason for retiring prematurely. He thought his art was propagating racial stereotypes. He was worried about hurting people. His audience, as you probably know already, disagreed.
And that, I think, is why they call it 'art'. 'Entertainment' is something you engage in when there’s extra time, but art is the seemingly frivolous thing you make time for, no matter what’s going on. Even, sometimes, if it has a chance of hurting someone (and it almost always does). Even if you think the world is ending. A dying civilization has more need for art than any other.
A vibrant society needs art, too, for those of you who are still not on board with the whole 'decay' thing.
Because, of course: art is not frivolous, in and of itself (it can be, if that’s what you’re aiming for). Creating art connects you to the people around you, sometimes in ways that you didn’t want, or weren’t expecting it to. It teaches you who you are, and how you see the world. If you think you already know how you see the world, and that I’m being presumptuous, or that I’m pretentious to suggest otherwise, all I can say is that I hope that you will spend some years of your life creating. If you do, you may find that your impressions of the only world you’ve ever known are decidedly more byzantine, more vibrant, and more nuanced than you had thought. You may find that single-minded dedication to creating something you intend to share with others will deepen your insight, give your experiences more relevance, make life taste different.
I can’t promise it’s a taste you’ll enjoy.
I hope you’ll do it anyway. Make something. Add something refreshingly human to the world, instead of (just) waiting to be carried away by the cultural and political crap-tornado that everyone seems to be perpetually bracing themselves for.
I, for one, will be better off for your efforts—even if they hurt.
