****
The life of an artist is a cursed one. Let me be more specific. An artist who draws, paints or creates sculptures has a cursed life. Performing artists (actors/actresses and musicians) might also fall prey to curses. But, there is certainly a difference. Only artists who give their time, talent and heart to tangible works seem to share a miserable bond.
Performing artists go through an excessive amount of fuss and labor to make something supposedly worth thousands and/or millions of dollars soon after creation; but the value of the work sharply declines with time. Sure; some props/souvenirs and/or autographs might retain some value. But, the original performed creation sort of gets dusty and loses its appeal.
If you are a lucky artist, you don’t strive for perfection; you simply enjoy your craft. Perfectionism is a chronic disease that pushes artists, including me, to invest more time in a project than what is necessary, compounded by unnecessary distress and other health issues. A little voice consistently tells you to do better, making you doubt yourself and your abilities. I imagine some–the happiest–artists are immune to this; they can easily craft and sell or barter with their creations because they don’t fuss over details; they just create the way some plants produce fruit. You might get some deformed tomatoes, but the plant isn’t complaining about its output.
A lucky artist also worries the least about the demise and/or safety of their work. Someone like the infamous Robin-Hood-of-art, “Banksy,” must have a rather thick skin. They put their work on a building, without permission, and there is no guarantee it won’t be removed or replaced. [Of course, with all the good press, lately, there doesn’t seem to be much reason to worry about losing any artwork, amazingly. And, surely this prompts other younger artists to paint walls in their area, most likely with less success and far less reward.]
The best way to be an artist is to create from the heart without any concern for what others think and say, letting your creation fall and crumble where it may. I think Picasso tried to do that, moving from house to house, leaving heaps of creations behind. But, how many of us can afford that? And, isn’t that a tragic investment? All of that money for supplies and time that could have been spent earning retirement income (a disturbing concept of the present world) or sharing memories and experiences with other people…devoted to solitary crafting which can only, potentially, guarantee a passing pleasure from the effort. It’s sort of like exercise, you either positively or miserably power through it to achieve some uncertain benefit and then cope with the consequences, whether those include injury or just require cleaning up a mess of sweat. You don’t frame your sweat or muscle tone and put it on a wall for all to admire; you just create it to feel good for a moment. [I guess that sort of living, creating and letting go, is like casual sex. It’s not about procreation and achieving some higher purpose or status; it’s just a passing good feeling which might be similar to a drug high/buzz.]
Regardless of that, if you are a fellow artist, you and I spend so much time creating things that don’t necessarily bring us enough wealth and resources while we are still living. Instead, if our work survives our own demises, it suddenly goes up in value and becomes wanted. You might think nothing about some artwork you currently have sitting in a corner or bad box. But, when you die, even your worst doodle could suddenly be given a value that would make your head spin. [I’ve seen people discuss the value of horrible, poorly drawn doodles by famous artists like Picasso, and the shock hurts my full head.] Also, such artists invest the very money they need to afford their lives to buy more supplies to make more art which, again, may not bring them any financial or other assistance until they are already dead.
This sort of life is like giving everything to a charity that doesn’t achieve any noble good. And, what good does this life achieve/provide? Why wouldn’t the artist see his or her work achieve a positive difference in their lifetime? Why can’t their creativity be applied to something of noble value while they are still breathing and able to appear at a celebration of that work? Instead, artists die all too soon, and other people become hasty and competitive about acquiring their creations at ridiculous prices. Where is the merit or respect in that? Kids? The moral of the story is…art creates madness and is just as tragically wasteful as the mass packaging of modern consumerism/commercialism.
I’ve spent nearly half of my life fawning over goddesses of Greek mythology, particularly Athena, who is said to be a goddess of the arts. But, what if that power or influence, her legendary skill with strategy, was used to deceive humankind? What if instilling, stoking creative talent is a curse to make mortals suffer in exchange for the prayers and offerings that keep a goddess alive? [Just like some say Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of beauty and passion, having an association with Ares, the Greek god of war, could stoke the fires of violence, including mass murder, which sort of depletes the awe one might expect to feel when thinking of such a beautiful goddess.] There have been countless tales of people being induced into trances to squander their lives, submitting to and dying from addictions. That’s a sort of blackmail; isn’t it? [No offense intended, Athena; I still adore you…I just am not sure I can trust you, right now. Maybe there IS something to being associated with snakes that should be concerning.]
It’s no wonder why some parents get mad at the kid who wants to be an artist. It’s not just about not making a big salary; it’s a costly passion that resembles a slow suicide. And, no wonder Van Gogh became crazy enough to remove an ear for a girl who didn’t fully accept him.
This is serious life-threatening stuff, people. Yet, if someone were to convince me to give up art, completely, I worry what would become of me. I worry about losing my soul and becoming just another unfeeling drone in this mad beehive-like world of “make it faster” and “replace it, quickly.” Giving up art is like giving up faith, and too many have already done the latter. Without faith and art in the world, life seems tragically mechanical and dull.
And, even then, if there was no art and faith in the world, I doubt humankind would re-enter the natural circle of life still occupied by all of the other animals humans tend to treat as something other than fellow living creatures. Or, am I completely wrong? Could faith or some other human-fashioned concept be the driving force that makes humans separate themselves from other lifeforms? Was it an ancient oath to a god that started the whole mess of treating insects and rodents like…pests…and concerning ourselves with privacy and nudity? [I suppose that IS one result of the Garden-of-Eden story.] Would a complete eradication of faith and art return humans to the wild (and “natural order”)? Or, would that just be the final step in pleasing some evil entity who then would claim he or she won the greatest game of chess?
I imagine my life ending with my body placed in a sarcophagus; my vital organs placed in medical jars…but for experimentation or presumed trade value, not for my own preservation in the afterlife, which few will likely still believe exists. And, some day, a curious soul will find my remains or final resting place (if there’s nothing left after a funeral pyre) only to be cursed with the burning desire to be creative.
Inspiration. It’s a blessing…and a curse. [Now, imagine those final words crafted with some sort of Egyptian hieroglyphics.]
Writingbolt's Creation 