Artist admits, I no longer feel compelled to make work
Words & images © Paul Ransom
No, I am not an artist. Or rather, artist is not who I am. Art is simply one of the things I do.
Don’t get me wrong, I love making work. It feeds me in ways that seem essential and life-giving. I have (and will likely continue to) plough thousands of hours into the art and the craft of literature, film, and photography. Furthermore, I will do so in the knowledge that fame and fortune will probably not be my reward.
In this, I am far from alone. Whether we are creatives, tinkerers or amateur leaguers, those of us still pursuing lifelong passion projects are challenged to maintain motivation in the face of obscurity and so-called ‘failure’. Why start the next blog post no one will read or turn up for training on a wet weeknight for a bottom-tier, over-50s football match when reality constantly reminds you to stay real, and society screams at you to compete, climb, and conquer? Trying to build a hyperdrive in the shed or paint the next genre-shifting masterpiece is spare time stuff. The thing you do after everything else.
In lieu of more obvious inspirations, (like cash and cachet), artists and sundry hobbyists commonly resort to compulsion mantras. We tell ourselves we have to. This is our calling, our core purpose. Part of God or the universe’s plan for us. We also conflate our passion with our identity. I am an actor, philosopher, etcetera. Alternatively, we cook up missionary and/or metaphysical objectives. Some of us will fall foul of messianic delusion; others will simply linger in a belief that they possess rare genius. Still others harbour a sense of entitlement or retain an overblown faith in the notion of meritocracy. Success, they tell themselves, is their due. Anything short of that is unfair.
Across the decades I have played host to many such conceits. Yet perhaps the most persistent of them was the habit of identifying. My story of self spun around an axis of artistry. Even when I decided to walk away from ‘the writer fantasy’ circumstance soon called me back1. At the time it seemed like fate. A creative call to arms. Later, when I learned to locate reward in process, (rather than being focused on future-dated targets like publishing deals and viral acclaim), making work remained a self-defining act. Indeed, without me fully noticing, it became nigh compulsory. As if, without it…
This year – 2024 – has flipped all that. Amid a flurry of rejection letters and a head-on collision with the hard surface of physical decline, (failing eyesight), I reached a point of surrender. Acceptance. On a bench overlooking an estuary, on a mild and cloudy evening, a moment of stillness. Clarity.
Paul, you do not have to do this.
You do not need to be an artist.
Nor do you need to be who you tell yourself you are.
You can stop any time you like.
For the record, I had been busy with the early development of an indie film project. Actors, composers and others had been recruited to help bring the idea to life, a script had been drafted, and thousands had been sunk on gear, which I subsequently spent months trying (failing) to work out how to use. Then…the wall. Short-sighted fumbling morphed into amplified self-doubt; thereafter to a punishing drone. Working in the service of beauty had become an ugly chore. A burden. For a few weeks I was hating both it and myself.
Until one balmy sunset on Jeju Island, where – alone, miles from home, somewhat frazzled – I remembered the obvious. None of this was compulsory. It was all choice. The standard mantras of persistence, of overcoming adversity, and the egocentric fear of looking shonky and unreliable melted away. Recalling it now, it felt like liberty. Inspiration refreshed.
- Curious? Click to explore the finer details of my revealing month on Jeju Island.
Net result: minus the ‘have to’ and the ‘who I am’, artmaking is no longer so pivotal. Indeed, I could let it go altogether. At the very least, I have stopped being so adamant about it.
Which begs the question: why am I writing this? Although a close friend insists I do it for the attention, he is not entirely correct. Sure, I’d like it if you liked this, and I would be happy to see a sharp spike in sales for either of my books2, but I have lived so long without such quantifiable signs that their absence is of near zero consequence. Not being heard does not diminish the joy of speaking. (Truth be told, it sometimes makes the speaking easier.)
Yet, despite stripping out compulsion, higher purpose, and identity based motivators, I will surely continue to make work. What’s more, I will keep wanting to.
For here is the true crux of the matter. Not needing, not being merely addicted, not in pursuit of external validation. Rather, actively wanting to commit to the process of creating art.
To reiterate, locating the reward in process.
This may seem wishy-washy. Yet more meme-quality mush to chant in the face of harsher truths – except it just happens to be a genuine shape-shift. A deep and motivating invitation, as opposed to a habit or obligation, or a pitch for your attention.
I am crafting this piece because I am thoroughly enjoying the practise of refining an idea and distilling it into the elixir of language. As a corollary I may inspire others and blow up the internet. But they would be side effects over which I have almost no control. If I am investing my hours into these paragraphs principally for your likes & shares, or to snag a big money gig, I am highly likely to be disappointed. Conversely, if the pay-off lives here and now – at this desk, with coffee and tunes for company – I know I can bank it.
To extend the metaphor, it is a rock solid investment, with live-time dividends paid out on the run. K-ching!
Of course, I knew all this long before my Jeju epiphany. I simply required several weeks of self-authored hectoring to arrive at a place of deeper equanimity. Maybe I needed to experience the bleeding edge of the difference between surrender and capitulation. Just to be sure I wasn’t copping out.
My guess is that many others are on this journey. I think of all those who struggle to find the energy to keep their flame alight in the face of adverse cultural messaging, persistent self-doubt, economic constraint, and the lure of options more likely to appease loved ones and money lenders.
That said, it is clearly a privilege to indulge such conundrums. Following private artistic passion and spending time on hobbies or in pursuit of grand visions were options not typically available to the vast majority of people throughout human history. Even now, most of us are hard pressed to find the time and resources to do much more than ensure short-medium term survival. I am profoundly fortunate to be in a position to write words that hardly anyone will read, and to find joy in a process that will very likely bring no such pleasure or benefit to others. Adjectives like selfish and useless are not so wide of the mark.
Although this sounds like a moral injunction to stop – or just kill myself in order to free up food for hungrier mouths – it serves as a reminder. My art will not save the world, nor will it save me. This post is not an act of virtue, neither is it a sin or sacred duty. It is simply a choice.
- Some people choose to start companies that exploit cheap labour and pollute rivers. Others elect to make dance works that few ever see. Which, I wonder, does the least harm?
The impetus, and the discipline required to turn inspiration into action, and thence to finished article, is not external. Neither is it rooted in imagined outcome or perfectionist zeal. My art may once have been a self-reinforcing obsession, but it has lately become an end in itself. Literally art for art’s sake. The practise of practise.
There are no paths. Only walking.
To conclude, stopping makes no more sense than continuing. I may as well share this. After all, it was such fun3 writing it.
1: In my mid-30s, having toiled half my life to crack it, I woke up to the probability that I would almost certainly not be a bestselling author or award winning director. I had talent, but the floor was not shiny, and the audiences were voting for something else. So I stopped. In truth, it was a relief. The perception of failure was undermining me, injecting poison into my work and home life. Then, a month or so later, I got an unexpected call. I had been accepted for a Script Development Grant. I was soon to receive the biggest paycheque of my life. The page was calling me. How could I possibly refuse?
2: A novel: The Last Summer of Hair. Plus a non-fiction title: The Pointless Revolution (The Economics of Doing Whatever You Want). Both are available via Bequem Publishing right here.
3: I realise that some will have an issue with ‘fun’. They will, perhaps, have preferred me to opt for more high minded alternatives. To be clear, what I mean is not mere thrill. My practise is more than a sugar hit. The satisfaction is nuanced, broad based and, more often than not, deep and calm. More lake than white water rush.
As If You Were Listening 