Is it enough to be the organizer and not the artist?
Identity, ego, & giving up both in search of something of significance
Hello Folks,
It feels like it has been a long while since our most recent newsletter post— all of which is to say that we have been quite busy around here with Book Club and the podcast. All good things, but I’ve missed these rambling posts to you all. Today: the role of the organizer and the role of the artist, a line I’ve found myself straddling the last few years.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve considered myself an artist. It’s the primary way I have carried myself in the world, the way I have made meaning in my life. When nothing has made sense, when everything has felt so dark and unknowable that light would never again be found, this has been what I clung to. If I possessed the capacity to make art, then I possessed the capacity to reimagine, and thus reinvent. That’s a liberatory power, and— for me, at least— a dangerous one. The moment one life felt off, another one could be born.
Just this morning, one of my students told me he thought I had lived many lives— that I had layers. It’s something that’s often shared with me, despite the life I’ve settled into now. He’s right. I have been so many things. I have been a wannabe surfer being sent merchandise despite only having surfed one in my life; I have been a poet in the streets of Paris; I have been an activist, fueled on rage and youth; I have been a researcher, backpacking South America and the Middle East; I have been a camp counselor, leading yoga classes on a wooden platform by the lake. I’ve been a teacher and a student, far away and close from home. I’ve lived in many places and had many hair colors and invented and reinvented myself more times than I can count. It struck me as my student remarked on this that, for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel that need anymore. I am settled into this life now; I enjoy this body. It is mine, after all this time.
This got me thinking more about that identity, and the way in which I feel settled now— and yet, I don’t often think of myself as an artist anymore. I write things, yes, but much of my time working in the arts these days is spent connecting people, highlighting the artists around me, and seeking to uplift work. There is nothing that brings me more joy than seeing those I love gain recognition. And yet, there is a part of me— that ego, no matter how big or small— that wonders about my own moment to gain recognition. That wonders if my time has passed, if it is too late for me to make any meaningful art of my own.
Today I interviewed someone and we spoke about the role of the organizer, and the importance of being the person to make space for art to be made. That is not always synonymous with making art of your own, and it’s a tricky balance. Any free time I have now goes into this project, into all the work behind the scenes, and very little into the novel draft I think about, talk about, and have little time to actually write. I am immersed in the arts, more surrounded by talented artists than ever before, and yet, I’m hardly sure if I can even count myself among them.
There is so much pressure on being an artist. So much push to create, create, create at all times. It leaves little room for life itself. Often, artists crumble under that pressure, falling into all kinds of unhealthy methods for coping. I know this because I have been there. I have leaned into everything to distract myself from that ego, which longs only for recognition. I think there is a part of me I will never shake that finds public recognition akin to being known— and that longs for it still.
In high school, an angst-ridden teenager, I used to write in my notebook, over and over again until it felt true: I Am Unknowable. Back then, I wanted to be that way. The mystery of myself was what made me interesting; it was, by that logic, what made me an artist. I thought that artists were simply those who knew how to suffer beautifully— who knew how to turn their pain into something that mattered. I was full of pain, and I wanted it to matter. I didn’t want it to go to waste. I tried to make beautiful things and I never truly could. I tried to convince myself that I didn’t want happiness, or community, that these were things I would be fine without if the art was good. I was wrong.
I like being the organizer. In fact, I prefer it. I thought sharing my art would make me known, but in fact what makes me known is the very act of taking the time to get to know others. To help them become known to the world, the very way that I once wanted. I had dreams and goals, and I still have them, I suppose. But they are simpler now. They involve knowing the world instead of the world knowing me. They involve open fields and sprawling pine trees and a table full of people and laughter. There’s art there, too, but I’m beginning to believe it might not have to be mine. And even more so, I’m beginning to believe I’m okay with that.
At the end of my favorite poem, “Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”, Richard Siken writes: We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor . . . / When I say this, it should mean laughter, / not poison. / I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes. / Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you. / Quit milling around the yard and come inside.
In a reconstruction of the poem I wrote in college, I imagined it as: I’m coming together. Back inside the house we wrap ourselves in blankets and roll on the floor: not from poison, but laughter. Let there be applesauce, blackberries, seats reserved for the weary. Seats reserved for ourselves. I saved one for you. Leave the house burning and come outside.
All this is to say, things can fall apart, and there is still a new place to be found. What you thought you wanted can be long gone, burnt down to the ground, and there is still somewhere to exist, someplace to be. You do not have to be a hero to reach this place. You do not have to be an artist. In fact, you do not have to even be good (though of course, as you well know, I believe in there’s a good folk in us all). You only have to be willing to seek, to reach out to others. It’s not about being saved; it’s about being willing to be a part of the world. I wish deeply that I could tell the teenage me who couldn’t fathom being an artist and being content all at once.
Furthermore, I still fundamentally believe there is an artist in all of us, one that lies outside the ego, outside that need for fame and recognition. One that desires simply to create. Mary Oliver writes it like this: Maybe our world will grow kinder eventually. / Maybe the desire to make something beautiful / is the piece of God that is inside each of us.
That is the artist. That is what it means. That drive for beauty, whatever it may mean to you. I think, for me, these days that beauty is found in others, and in putting together all the pieces to see the growth that comes anew. Like blossoms blooming currently on the trees, it’s a sight to behold.
I leave you with this meditation on the artist by Shulamit Ran in a convocation speech for the University of Chicago:
There is joy in the activity. And there is great joy in the discovery that such activity leads to something on which you can feast your eye, your ear, and your soul too. Something that offers insight, illumination, and the gift of sharing and communion. And there is an intense gratification in the realization that others receive joy and happiness from it too, feeling uplifted and transported beyond the here and now. Perhaps this is also the artist’s way of saying “take note– I was here. This is my way of leaving a tiny imprint on the vastness of the universe. I too am part of the creative forces of our world.” Art’s very nature is meant to be experienced.
PROMPT OF THE WEEK
What is blooming in the world around you? What are the seeds being planted? Which ones are you planting for yourself, and why?
FIVE THINGS THAT BROUGHT ME JOY THIS WEEK
Loving this song by North Carolina band Tombstone Poetry.
The cherry blossoms, of course. Every year. And the light that still shines at 6pm.
My life the last two months has been completely focused on connection. And I’m very grateful for all the amazing new people that focus has brought me.
Good memes. Always.
More music. Had this on repeat for a good 72 hours straight. Feeling hopeful. Feeling happy.
