Sticking with the subject of art and creativity, these past years I’ve been experiencing a state of confusion and inaction I’m sure many can relate to. Maybe in my case it is less acute given that advancement in age brings the ultimate excuse for doing nothing and which is that ‘it’s too late anyway and may as well just sit tight and wait to die’. Its for the most part true, my father used to say ‘if you haven’t made it by forty you may as well give up, take any job going and hope it sees you through to retirement’. He was speaking about careers in business but the art scene is not much better, ever noticed how many art competitions and support there is for ‘young and emerging artists’? In reality you can be an emerging artist at any age, even old age, but not according to the mainstream who by their insistence an emerging artist must be say under twenty-five prove two things; one that at the bottom of the mainstream indeed lies mediocrity and two, they don’t want anyone over twenty-five kneeling before them with mouth wide open. Not a joke – I knew a gallery owner in the past who got sucked by all his exhibiting artists. Therefore the shit he had hanging on the walls of his multiple galleries but I’ll stop right there. You get the picture.
The trick to success I think is to say you couldn’t give a rat’s arse if anyone reads your book or buys your painting. In fact the starting point is that you couldn’t give a rat’s if you die with the music still in you. After all, dead you don’t know you’re dead and by way of consequence, don’t know you had a good novel or groundbreaking painting buried deep in your entrails. Maybe you did suspect its existence but couldn’t be bothered writing it down and that’s fine as well, possible years of sleep deprivation and self-doubt is a high price to pay for the privilege of getting less money than a kid flipping burgers at Maccas – if you work out the hours spent in most cases – or having your ego fluffed up by a few people wanting your signature on the first edition. Maybe you are an idealist and want to make a contribution to your nation’s cultural heritage but your nation will never miss what they don’t know could have existed and the populace are probably too busy watching Big Brother or reading Cleo, Fast Fours or V8’s & Big Tits and if not are probably watching, holding chin between thumb and crocked first finger, the Bolshoi’s umpteenth repeat performance of Swan Lake. It’s not reason enough and especially if and as is increasingly the case nowadays if the work is honest, your creation could well attract more hate than admiration. I’d say and am not alone and not the last to say it – if you do it then just do it for yourself. When it’s finished you can decide whether you want to put it out there.
A reason and will to create is difficult enough but there is worse and it is the confusion over the source of so-called inspiration. For the most part the public love to believe and artists love to perpetrate the myth, and maybe believe it themselves in some sort of deluded way, that there is something metaphysical or even divine to the artist’s inspiration and they have this rare ability courtesy of Nature or God. Let me set people straight on that, near anyone can learn to do anything to a level commensurate with the amount of effort they are prepared to put in and the same applies to composing and performing music, drawing, painting and writing. Genius is as Edison said, ninety-nine percent perspiration and one percent inspiration and it’s true, no matter you roll your cigarettes, wear ripped jeans and have a ring in your nose, your work will always be crap if you don’t work hard at your trade and that before worrying about the inspiration bit of the equation.
But lets talk about that one percent which is indeed so rare. Here is a fact I found funny but which did not surprise me. Most are familiar with the works of German composer Richard Wagner and would agree he accessed the lofty ranks of genius but I didn’t and suspect most didn’t know that he reportedly could not compose if he was not wearing silk underwear. In other words – if further clarification is needed – he could not be ‘inspired’ if he was not jerking himself under the table. I have that on good source – a series of serious lectures on serious German culture called “What is German”. Thomas Mann hints at the same thing when in “Death in Venice” he writes, “It is well the public know only of a great work and not also what inspired it because knowledge of the source of the artist’s inspiration would confuse them and lead them to think less of the work” I paraphrase as too lazy to dig up Mann’s exact words but you get the idea and in Mann’s case he must have had his young boyfriend in mind, in 1942 he records,
-from the Klaus Heuser period, when I was a happy lover… Well, there it is – I have ‘lived and loved’. Dark eyes that shed tears for me, beloved lips I kissed – it all happened, to me it was given, I shall be able to tell myself this as I die.
Half his luck. Ginsberg put it differently but I guess meant pretty much the same when he said a poem rises from your guts. LOL – his gut must have been in a remarkable state of agitation when he penned, “Please Master”.
Please master can I touch your cheek
please master can I kneel at your feet
please master can I loosen your blue pants
please master can I gaze at your golden haired belly
please master can I have your thighs bare to my eyes
please master can I take off my clothes below your chair
please master can I can I kiss your ankles and soul
please master can I touch lips to your hard muscle hairless thigh
please master can I lay my ear pressed to your stomach
please master can I wrap my arms around your white ass
please master can I lick your groin gurled with blond soft fur
please master can I touch my tongue to your rosy asshole
please master may I pass my face to your balls,
please master order me down on the floor,
Well – no comment and you can read the rest on the ‘Hello Poetry’ website.
Seriously – the ability to create a notable piece of creative work involves pretty much the whole person just as does the act of making a baby. Trying to limit the exercise to the intellect will always result in at best a well-crafted mediocrity because any suppression, even the slightest, will always turn you back from artist to tradesman and if the case you may as well not bother. Or maybe and as George Orwell wrote is the only solution for an honest writer – commit suicide. I’d suggest if asked, you create for yourself, burn the result if fearing unpleasant repercussions, and generally just stick the middle finger up and say fuck youz all.
Bicycle trailer update: on route from Melbourne by courier this time so fingers crossed, I’ll be out in the wild next week.