Instinctism and the Denial of Expectation [2012]

"Theory has nothing whatsoever to do with poetry.  The only thing that matters is how much talent someone has and how far they're willing to go with it -- the rest of it's largely bullshit, though it's possible one needs some bullshit in life."

-- Alice Notley, from an interview with David Baker

that appeared in the October 2009 issue of 

The Kenyon Review

Artists have been experiencing trouble assimilating to the demands of everyday life for decades, even centuries.  They are, almost by nature, outsiders.  But why is it that artists seem so particularly stifled in today's society?  Why, in the last several hundred years or so, roughly since The Renaissance, have they been so increasingly susceptible to the worst of suicidal impulses?  As a matter of fact, why have I, on more than one occasion, considered killing myself?  Aside from the nearly prerequisite presence of actual mental illness, it has something to do with expectations:  what is expected of the artist by family, peers, society, the workplace, and the ever-pressing academic institution; and, most importantly, it has to do with what the artist demands of their self.  We, as artists, are so overloaded with our varied expectations that we barely have enough room in our heads to think, let alone nurture a fruitful creative process.  And, if we're fucking crazy on top of all this, well…

In today's fast-paced, content-riddled world, artists are no longer provided and accommodated for; they are no longer seen as vital contributors to a healthy, thriving society.  And, though one might argue that there are plenty of "creative" outlets afforded artists on the internet, this is, by no means, the same as one having achieved the acknowledged acceptance of society at large.  Unfortunately, it is nearly impossible for a serious artist to spend a majority of time working (i.e. getting paid) at their craft.  And, more and more, art is being exploited as something closer to a fashion accessory, something that can be quickly referenced, marked, and discarded; a mere trifle that makes a brief impact, and then fades away.  Therefore, a whole new society of "artists" has sprung up, one which values quantity over quality, and one which holds as its primary concern the pursuit of the payday.  This seems contrary to the whole idea of art, and this is the single most significant indicator of our great artistic decline: artists are no longer creating work from and for the centuries-old continuum of art, but are manufacturing products to be monetized and consumed.  This is a nearly impossible expectation of the artist, and most either submit to it, abandoning their personal creative integrity along the way, or fall victim to it, often ending up insane and/or dead.  There must be a way to rectify this.  But first, I'll provide a couple of specific personal examples of the havoc money can wreak upon an artist's life.

In the summer of 1988, fresh out of high school, I rather naively accepted a professional gig.  I had been studying classical music and theory with Irving Sarin since 1982 and had been quite successful as an amateur musician.  My bedroom shelves were lined with awards, medals, and various certificates, and I'd managed to sit first chair in every orchestra with which I had been involved.  Certainly, I was more than qualified to work a wedding, and a young couple had engaged me to do just that.  They had written their own trumpet fanfare to kick off the wedding processional, and I was well prepared to handle the material.  However, all along, something had been nagging at me: I just didn't feel right about taking money for the job.  When the time came to perform, I, seemingly uncontrollably, blurted out an atonal series of squeaks and honks that had absolutely nothing to do with what appeared in the sheet music.  Afterwards, I quickly packed up my instrument and shamefully snuck out before receiving any payment.  I spent nearly an hour afterwards crying in my car and trying to figure out what went wrong.  Now, some might argue that this situation was simply created by nerves, but I insist that I had experienced, prior to this wedding, several instances where the stakes were much higher, where there was much more reason to be nervous.  Suffice to say, I was well accustomed to high pressure situations.

Ten years later, in the summer of 1998, I was out on tour with my band, Fez.  I had been in the group since April of 1996, and I had managed, up to that point, to never accept any sort of financial payment.  This had been relatively easy, as we'd never previously left home.  However, about a week into this first (and only) outing, we were in Atlanta for a few days playing a festival and doing a showcase gig for Daemon Records.  In all the excitement, I managed to use up all of the money I had allotted for myself.  Dean, the leader of the group, offered to give me $100 out of the band fund, which he had already done a few times for the other members of the group.  I reluctantly took it, experiencing a sick feeling in my gut from the get-go.  Three days later, after a series of unfortunate incidents, all four of us were fighting in our van about money, and specifically about the money I had taken.  By the time we arrived home a few days later, I had quit the band, and registered a valuable lesson:  I would never -- and I mean NEVER -- again allow money to come between me and my art.

What all this stands to prove is this: the only way to eliminate this particularly devastating expectation is to cease allowing it to matter.  How might we achieve this?  The artist simply must concede that they cannot allow money to play into their artistic process.  In other words, the artist must find some other way to earn a paycheck.  It can certainly be argued that contemporary American society -- for the most part -- no longer considers artistic work to be actual work anyway, so this concession is easier to make than one might think.

In a recent conversation with filmmaker Konrad Steiner, he revealed to me that he does not rely upon his artistic work for any kind of a living.  He is employed outside his area of concentration, and he uses the money he makes doing this outside work to fund his artistic endeavors.  Same thing for legendary New York fashion photographer, Bill Cunningham, who absolutely insists he not be paid for doing the work that he loves, primarily so that he might maintain creative control.  I, myself, functioned like this for years, and lived in blissful artistic happiness.  The only times I'd allowed anything different (see above) had resulted in disaster.  And now that I'm in school, again trying to do, as they say, "what I love" for a living, I'm finding myself increasingly miserable, and I haven't even begun to solicit for cash.  Just the looming shadow of this daunting pursuit has me sick.  Therefore, it seems legitimate to call into question the money-sucking educational institutions, as well.  As is stated in the UCSC Occupation Movement's manifesto, "Communique from an Absent Future", the university is bankrupt.  "It is the index of a...fundamental insolvency, one both political and economic, which has been a long time in the making."

It is difficult to resist the "shortcut" that can be provided by universities and other academic institutions.  They promise the "holy grail" of American artistic employability: the MFA.  But they in turn blind you and bog you down with one meaningless critical theory after another, and inundate your consciousness with more literature than one could ever properly process given twice the time.  And for an artist, a writer in particular, they dangle the difficult-to-resist carrot of that "cushy" professor position, actually within the dreaded institution itself.  When, in actuality, this is just another creativity-stifling trap, one which often renders the artist neutered and defeated.  But the most significant and harmful side-effect caused by the "schooling" track is the overwhelming desire it creates in one to turn what's left of one's art into some sort of on-the-fly money-making venture.  The thought of constantly having to be on the lookout for little supplementary opportunities to make $50 here or $100 dollars there is absolutely exhausting, even deadly.  And, as has been previously outlined, nothing is more detrimental to the creative process than this.

 

Another harmful expectation I've not yet detailed is the one which insists that the artist strive for "success", and that they potentially sacrifice all aspects of well-being engaging in this pursuit.  The questions are often asked: how might you be seen as successful in your field? And, when and if you achieve success, how might you maintain it?  Of course, finance plays a hand in this as well, but there's a small, somewhat metaphysical facet at play that I find rather intriguing.  In a February 2009 TED talk on nurturing creativity, author Elizabeth Gilbert addresses the term "genius".  She indicates that in ancient Rome and Greece, a person could not be a genius.  In that earlier time, a "genius" was something (a spirit, angel, etc.) that attended to an artist, and served as something similar to what we refer to today as "the muse".  Therefore, a person could not be held entirely responsible for the content and/or resultant effects of their work.  Now, I'm not saying I subscribe to this wholly, but it certainly does sound like something of a relief, does it not?  And some of Gilbert's arguments and points are quite compelling.  I highly recommend watching the video if you've not yet seen it.  (I've watched this lecture probably a couple dozen times, and the story of the momentarily transcendent dancer still makes me weep.)  Along these same lines comes another argument.

In the 1968 essay, "The Death of the Author", French theorist Roland Barthes argues that an author's biography, and even their intentions, should have no bearing on the reader's interpretation of a text.  Barthes insists that the reader themself is responsible for the constructs of meaning and understanding, and that the language of a piece of writing, and the language alone, serves to make an impression upon said reader.  In other words, once the reader has applied themself to the text, and in turn their varied and singular pre-conceptions and understandings, the stated "author" is put to death, and the "true" author-- the reader -- is born.  This is another compelling argument, and one to which I do subscribe.  I do believe that authors/artists are often held a little too responsible for the impact of their work.  And if, in general, the reader/experiencer were more able to accept their significant role in the experience -- even creation -- of art, a great deal of pressure would be removed from the artist.

So, in the end, what I'm ultimately suggesting is that the aspiring artist should plan to disregard any and all societal expectations, find employment outside of their artistic discipline, and begin practicing something I call Instinctism.  Instinctism is a process wherein the aspiring artist (early on in life, if possible) recognizes within their self a set of innate, natural aptitudes or gifts (instincts), and begins a lifetime's process of nurturing them.  Once recognized and acknowledged, these instincts can be honed, refined, improved-upon, etc., and they actually require little engagement with any sort of secondary instruction.  Of course, this process, this organic development of intuitive powers, requires patience and an understanding: great things are not achieved overnight, or even over a set period of years.  This process is more of an evolution, and an evolution requires a nearly endless expanse of time.  There is no better way to properly nourish and cultivate one's ever-growing creative processes than to be continually sharpening your artistic instincts.  Of course, unfortunately, some simply do not have them, but that's another issue entirely.  (Should someone be in university attempting to nurture, no, create, talents that they do not have within them?  Here we have the misleading force of finance, once again, rearing its ugly head.)

As was mentioned previously, academic institutions do offer an educational "shortcut" to the practice of Instinctism, and there are advantages that result from having access to the kind of base materials (libraries and faculty members) that these institutions provide.  Therefore, truthfully, Instinctism cannot be for everybody.  Instinctism is for serious, self-motivated individuals only, and interested parties must be aware that this is an extremely lonely process.  You will not have the support of peers, fellow classmates, on this journey.  (As an interesting, seemingly somewhat contradictory aside, one potential path for the practice of Instinctism puts you actually at university, earning a degree in the field in which you intend to earn your living.  By doing this, you not only create a venue for future employment, but also afford yourself access to better materials for a self-education in your artistic discipline.  I suppose this would be what's called having "the best of both worlds".  Food for thought, certainly.)

          Instinctism can, quite decidedly, establish within the artist a peace of mind otherwise unattainable.  But one must be willing to labor without ever mixing art and commerce, without ever confusing the creative process with the process of earning a paycheck.  If this can be managed, then the artist will begin to experience a lifting of that heavy curtain of expectation, that artistic oppression that has so long been stifling them.