“Get in here and take yo medicine,” Granny said. She was giving me the anti-artist serum. As a child, I was told that artists don’t make much of a wage and it wouldn’t be the smartest career path. Deep down I knew I was an artist; however, it wasn’t a path my family would applaud.
Calling myself an artist was another feat because it comes with responsibilities, financial baggage, aesthetics, personas, and moods. Well, at least that’s what they showed us on the telly.
Down the road, when my hormones shifted and I walked around with titties and hips … I felt grown and courageous. I told my family I was going to University to study art; they all looked at each other with blank stares. You could feel the friction and discomfort in the room, but I didn’t have a fuck to give (well, I felt a miniature steak knife stab my heart, but I didn’t let that stop me). I was finally choosing to do something for me and not based on what my family thought was right.
So, fast-forward, I did the art school thang…
It was cool: I learned a lot, enjoyed my professors, made art school friends, and, thousands of dollars later, realized I didn’t need debt just to be an artist.
After art school, my granny and momma's voices lived rent-free in my head; I kept hearing them say, “choose a job that will make you money.” And so I did; I got an entry-level job in finance and worked my way up. I was beyond removed from myself, the art world, and my creativity. The only way that I could get my fix was to surround myself with artists, go to shows, and be a patron. Working in finance was soul-sucking; I felt like I had flatlined. What the hell was I doing? And what was I trying to prove? Questions I could not answer at the time …
Meanwhile, my creativity was dry and itchy like a sad ass patch of eczema. I wanted to create; I felt the itch, but I also felt so detached from my creativity. I told myself that I would create on gloomy rainy Sundays, even if it was drawing a stick figure. Something about the combination of the weather and the day of the week created the perfect storm for inspiration.
I also got into deep convos with my artist friends; we discussed the highs and lows of being an artist, the extraction, the expectations, and pressures. And the more I talked to my friends, the more I realized I didn’t want to be in their world. My friends would shed tears and tell stories. I would be there, passing out tissues and hugs. My deep-seated wise couch would hold us until dawn; wine, weed, and moody tunes filled the air.
During those wavy nights, I learned a few things …
Most artists have been commodified. They were making money by creating art, but they were losing themselves while wearing the many masks they learned to put on. After a certain point, they became the masks. They became a brand. Some Fortune 500 companies sponsored their creativity. The almighty algorithm directed their ways of expression and creativity. And yes, they’re making money, but at what cost?
Their art wasn’t saying anything anymore. They didn’t even know what they wanted to say, or if it was “safe” to say …
Their art lacked feeling. They were censored and told what to create.
Their imaginations were diluted. They became a machine, producing soulless work- work that appeased and no longer disrupted, work that pacified and no longer spoke. Work that wasn’t connected to story, heart, pain, politics, society, or vulnerability.
And when they produced for the culture, it had to fit within the parameters of the cultural narrative being told. The galleries want this, the agent thinks this is best, and where is the artist in the midst of these transactions??
I know there are artists creating from a well within, from spaciousness; they are channeling, dying over and over, living in and out of suffering, sharing, leaving marks, and sharing without compromise; yeah, them … those artists give me hope.