The Disappointing Fate of Most Artists (and Their Dreams)

We say we create for ourselves, and there is a level of truth in that. Let’s compare the process to a physical one, like climbing a mountain.

Climbing a mountain is it’s own reward, right? Standing at the peak of achievement, a rush of endorphins flood the body - a biological signal that it was a worthwhile endeavor. A night of great sleep follows, and if the physical activity is done on a consistent basis, the body will just adapt to perform better generally speaking. Your tolerance for pain will become greater. Stuff that hurt you before won’t even register anymore. You’ll outpace people who once outpaced you. You’ll find higher peaks to climb, and then you’ll be rewarded with endorphins for that. Theoretically, this might be the best way to live your life, maybe? In a constant state of self improvement, in a perfect state of optimal body function. The only negative I see here is the inevitable breakage of your body. We’ve all heard the stories of the high-achievers who break a leg and can no longer compete… scary stories they are. Or, if you become old and age naturally, then what? Perhaps if you’re mentally well adjusted, you can relax and make peace with your great accomplishments. For me, it seems like the best-case scenario (maybe the truly perfect alignment of fate) would be to die directly after a dopamine spike, while you’re riding the high of tranquility. Maybe a rock falls in that sweet-spot on your head and the lights go out with a fraction of a second of pain that only registers as a nails on a chalkboard feeling.

Maybe you have a heart failing and it’s somehow not too awful? Though, I don’t know, the rock sounds better to me. Death, in general sucks, but I think a long, drawn out process is the worst probably. It’s a cowardly death, in a way. It’s the fear that makes us stretch things out, in anticipation of not knowing, and maybe pain, but mostly not knowing. My friends have told me their biggest fear associated with death is a concern for their families, not a self-centered one. I hope to have children, because that sounds like an amazing feeling. Right now, I just worry about myself, and what happens after the lights go out for me.

Last possible scenario I can think of is, if you were to begin living out this hypothetical physical lifestyle tomorrow, and you’re in your youth right now, you might possibly look forward to some discovery that provides you with an infinite life. I often times wonder if we are in that little window of human existence where such a thing will happen. And if we are proven to be in that window of existence, it will almost confirm for me my other suspicion that we are in the only window of time to ever exist, and this is all some elaborate prank or pre-visualized scheme being played out. There have been way too many crazy things that have happened in our lives already for me to feel like it’s blind luck that I wasn’t born a caveman, or slightly after the caveman era, or slightly after that, or even in the 1700’s where life wasn’t so grand, either. I suppose there is a case to be made for the 50’s and 60’s though, because they seemed pretty great for, you know, white American people.

Anyways, we say we create art for ourselves because it’s a healthy and balanced way to do anything, right? Because then, if no one else likes it, it doesn’t really matter, because it was the process and journey that made it all worth it anyways. If I say I made this blog for myself, that’d be a story, for sure. A true story? Partially. Maybe, in the course of laying out the comparison with physical activity, I answered some of my own question. My question was; if I made this for myself, why does the lack of readership compel me to stop? You can clearly see, the last time I posted was in December. If it were simply art that were providing me with a rush of endorphins, you think I’d be back, right? But I have an expectation associated with it. It’s like… every little peak I ascend to, I expect Nirvana - no, adulation- to wait for me. I expect to look down from the truth; the comfort of the pillowy clouds amongst the Gods at an audience of people looking up and waving at me from below. At every peak, I expect this. Every little fucking peak.

So the answer I unintentionally provided myself was, I’ve not trained myself as hard as I could. Optimally, if the analogy holds, I should be scaling peak after peak, and I should be conditioning myself as I go. Art should be it’s own reward, but it should be leading me to higher points as I go. Perhaps it is, maybe the Podcast I’ve started is me getting a handhold on the next cliff-face (switched the analogy a bit). But then, I’ve also stopped working on my huge, long-form film project, so I’ve found myself training, in a sense, to climb McKinley (or, Denali for a certain type of folks who might be reading) only to abandon that, and start speed running smaller hills. I’ve kind of switched my gaze toward a smaller, less intoxicating peak off in the distance. The constant change of direction that I take in these mountains is disorienting and most of all discouraging.

And so, what do I do? What do most people do?? I think it’s a bit of -though, I am scatterbrained and disorganized in a way that’s almost impressive- the nature of the beast, to try to lay plans and then watch life blow your supposed fortress away like the Big Bad Wolf did to the first little piggy’s straw house. That’s life. I try not to let my wife know that that’s life, but I believe it is life. I told women from my earlier relationships that I felt like life was this way - scrapping your piles of shit together and preparing to get beaten by the elements, but no women wants to hear that from their partner. I’m telling you though, I think it’s a harsh affair.

But there’s no sympathy for the quitter. And quitters quit at tremendous rates when it comes to art, any art at all. Be it the prestigious ones like authoring a book or the holy grail for me; directing a movie, or the less impressive but also no-walk-in-the-parks like Podcast hosting or even hosting a blog with any kind of consistency. They all have a high-rate of quitters and burnouts, who likely suffer from the same lack of adulation for the level of effort they put in. They didn’t really like doing it that much. Or maybe their feelings got the best of them, and they made themselves hate it, because that happens a lot with art, too. We force ourselves to feel pain while we work, and when the pain isn’t absolved and kissed away at the end, we kick a hole in whatever we were working on and retreat back to stasis where we won’t feel punishment or reward, because its safe.

Well. Here I am. I don’t give a shit if this is just a blog. I don’t give a shit if it’s just a podcast. If getting older has taught me one simple, piece of wisdom that seems so obvious it’s almost embarrassing to say, it’s this:

Doing ______ (podcasting, writing, directing) a little bit every day is incalculably more valuable than not doing it at all.

And that’s precisely what throwing up your hands when you don’t get the results you want is. It’s not doing it at all. It’s damning yourself to certain failure. How many artists do that? Almost all. Almost all, before they’ve even scratched the surface of what they’re capable of. So I’m here, again. I have returned bearing some fruits of my labor. I’ve got a podcast going. I’ve not given up on filmmaking. I’ll be back to that soon. If I can’t resume my movie, I’ll make a fucking short film, damnit. I’m furious that I stopped, but I’m grateful that I started to begin with, because I’ve never trained that hard in my life. I’ve suffered loss, but I can see clear enough through my stinging pride to know I gained valuable treasure in the process. Stuff that most people were never brave enough to glimpse.

I’ll be back tomorrow with another podcast, and another Musing.

Good evening.