Feed the Artist

55.

In the five-seconds it takes me to grab the phone, read the caller ID and find a place to hold what was sure to be a private conversation of immediacy and urgency, a preview of coming attractions plays in my mind.  A trailer of the pending ‘life flashing before one’s eyes’ as the lights are about to eternally dim. After all, the R&R is working its special blend of magical rejuvenation as my latest contemplation was in regard to the purpose of art. This metaphysical analysis, instigated by my artist friend who innocently, and genuinely, shared with me her opinion on the delicate, misunderstood and altogether personal responsibilities of the modern-day artist. It was, I immediately assumed, another passion vs livelihood pot shot at my back side. She insists that time spent being an artist is, in and by itself, time well spent. And I agree. Good things take time to mature, season and develop. No argument here. Rome wasn’t built in a day and it took Schubert almost five years to write a full symphony. With this same - failed - tongue-in-cheek attempt at humor, I insensitively quipped one day that the reason she could spend an entire morning beautifully arranging flat stones on the sea-shore was due to her having too much time on her hands. WRONG. Even a last-ditch ‘I was kidding’ plea wasn’t bargain enough to declare a mistrial on this social felony charge. 

Worse, I was later the victim of an almost lethal touché when confronted about my cheesy little attempts a video production and what a waste of time THEY are since no revenue results from the abnormally lengthy process of media capture, editing, audio augmentation, music scoring and even the slimmest structure of a narrative. “Maybe you should get a real job?”

“Well,” I stammer fully aware of the trap I have incredulously tripped into, “I don’t do them for any commercial purpose, I do them because, like any hobby, I find value in the process, enjoyment in the creative experience and a great deal of satisfaction - up to and including the cathartic, in making something out of nothing. Even if no one was to ever watch one I would still do them because of the occasional moments of magic that unavoidably pop into existence when my mind, body and spirit are working as one. In other words, I find this effort enormously creative and a tool for stress management all mixed into one. Profit, royalties, shares or points on the back end are meaningless to me.” 

She is looking at me as if waiting for a punchline. 

“How, then, is that any different from me spending a morning on the beach stacking rocks?” 

“It isn’t. It is exactly the same thing. I am truly sorry for the immaturity of my knee-jerk comment. I was captured at a time when I had a million and one things going on and the concept of dropping even one of them to ‘make some art’ was an impossibility. My compulsive reactivity should have been muted at best and filtered at worst. I beg forgiveness.”

She looks at me and recognizing sincerity, moves in for a conciliatory hug. The fact that she has, by design and necessity, no idea whatsoever of my real life, allows her to warn, affectionately and lovingly; 

“Just because you’re starving doesn’t necessarily mean you’re an artist.” 

I see the appreciation and camaraderie in her eyes and I hope see sees the same in mine. 

The movie ends.

“Yes, sir?” I respond to the call.