Art For Art's Sake

I was talking to someone today, who almost put me off blogging all together, she said- Do people laugh? And I said- What? Why would people laugh? She replied- But it’s just, you know, like, you don’t write on it every day do you? It’s not a diary? And I said- well it kinda is. I mean that’s the idea, isn’t it? And she just said that she guessed since everyone was doing it that it was normal.

(There are two mosquitoes here with me, just circling, and I want to KILL THEM!)

It is over-saturation verses mystique really. Although what interest I could possibly have that would warrant mystique is a complete mystery to me.

We talked about my writing too. Any writing or art and why I do it. My reasons were later likened to shitting.

That’s right. Shitting.

I wasn’t aware of this but it turns out to be true. I also didn’t think this was such a bad thing (the concept not the analogy) of writing because you just do. I can’t even remember when I wrote my first song/poem/thing but I think I must have been about seven and I never knew. It was just something that I felt like doing, and on a really good day came out practically in order and in under an hour.

You felt like it, regardless of where you were (the more different and interesting location the better) and if it meant using charcoal on table napkins, you made it happen. I never thought about why. It didn’t and really still doesn’t (or I would have given up in my first bout of cynicism) matter to me at all if anyone reads it. I would love them to and be even happier if anyone liked it, but... I mean, of course I would like fame. And I’m certainly not the only one with that aspiration as part of their dream. I don’t want to be heaps famous. If 2000 people showed up to see me I think I’d freak out, or bail.

She’s right it’s like shitting. I wish that was a better analogy, like eating or breathing. But it was something I could DO, sit down and say- I haven’t written in a while, and feel like writing about this, this and this so lets get to it.

I was happy and almost pleased that I could do that because I never felt stuck, and I did feel productive and powerful. These were times years ago without writers block that could last for six months. But I also thought this wasn’t the best of things, an uneasy superstitious feeling from the true artist in me.

Creativity is something that is cultivated, not mustered.

But I can’t do that anymore. And I’m unsure if that’s a good thing or not. But back to the topic at hand- shitting. Of course I do it for me, what artist doesn’t, if you only do it for someone else, what if they don’t like it, you have to stand up for your song in some way and enjoy performing it for yourself and also for the crowds enjoyment, right? Or am I just getting too bogged down and self absorbed again?

They said something on television this evening about Bette Davis as having a total lack of narcissism in a job that was all about it (acting), and how beautiful that was and that’s what made her such a great enduring performer.

I don’t think I’ll ever have that.

Nor look at or feel the same ways about my shat out songs again. I really try, but its not helping.

I think I was mentioned in a friend’s blog a few days ago, as HER. I was slightly flattered to be mentioned at all, and then took in the context and intentions and felt really guilty.

My coping mechanism for my self confessed narcissism is the songs I know. That makes it seem like shitting. Trying desperately to make something good out of this part of my nature I despise.

Maybe.

Mostly it gets me into trouble and fights and I lose friends. Who pass around my letters in order to take turns sending me insults worth framing. And the shame is it never hurt. It was something that I could read in a loud voice and then pause to remark- did you get that? Can you believe that shit? She completely has the wrong idea; it just got into the wrong hands.

I think it never sunk in because I comforted myself thinking that I was the better one and that they were just lashing out, and half the time they were, and we were friends by Tuesday. But now I think it does hurt, because they never came back. And I think they put more feeling into the hateful letters than the ones I called conversation. I hope I’m growing because of all this. Cos it sure feels unpleasant enough.

I think one day soon I’ll finish expressing what this all means to me.

…one day when the house burns down and I lose all my much accumulated shit and have to start thinking for myself…

And on that crazy note I think its goodnight for me. Blogging can give you the delusion that it’s better than sleeping.

‘Night.

☆Anika☆