Making Art in a Broken World

The world is screaming for art. And yet, it’s also it often feels so hard to create art. I could do my usual thing and say it’s just me making it hard for myself. Because realistically, I want it to be hard, or because I just not trying hard enough. Thousands of others have a classic full time office job and still manage to make art. Thousands of people suffer from depression and anxiety and still make art. And a lot of the time, even I make art despite the suffering. It may not be my best work, or even the full depths of my creativity and mind. But I’m bring things into existence. Which by the basic definition, is making art.

So why do I constantly feel like the world is trying to make it hard to create? Well the answer really is simple; it is. It’s becoming increasingly hard to make art and share it. It is increasingly hard to have the energy, time and will power to make art. And I don’t think it’s because I am too lazy, or because I have no idea how to finish the millions of stories, dance routines and other ideas in my head. I also don’t think it’s because I didn’t win the creativity lottery, and don’t have what it takes to be successful. Often times, thought the sentiment feels nice, I am not looking for the ego boost or the fame. Sure I do love attention and yes having money is really nice. But I also have a deep love for all the poems that never got any likes, for the poems sitting in my notebooks, the stories waiting on my laptop to be finished, and the dances I did in the middle of the night when no one was watching. Because my soul lives in each one of them. They’ve been created and by extension are me. So well making money via creativity would be a dream come true. I also just love that I live in a world where I can create and I can share, regardless of the outcome.

What I’ve come to hate and resent. Is the under appreciation. The perspective of the world when it comes to art. How I don’t have unlimited money to support small business and artists, and that art is still viewed as a second class citizen. It’s a dream and not a ‘real’ job in the eyes of so many. It’s a good hobby. Even though, it has saved so many people. The hard part of art, is that it doesn’t matter how many people say they were saved by the arts. That music saved them, that pottery saved them, that writing saved them or even dance. It doesn’t matter the hours you pour your soul into creating. Because if it isn’t ‘successful’ and if it has no monetary value to it… then it can’t be that special. And I wish I was exaggerating this one. I wish the voices of the artist that are successful, the ones that do believe in it’s power and purpose… could be heard more. That more people could see how important creating is.

I know the thoughts on this aren’t fully formulated in my head either. So there is a good change that most of what I am writing, isn’t making a lot of sense. It could go into my blog post as a garble of words. One that screams, I hate this corporate capitalistic world we live in and wish we lived in a nicer socialistic world that allowed more people to leave their dreams. Most people would tell me to grow up. To which I would likely roll my eyes. Because I am grown, and I do think that if more people had the means to leave the way they wanted, we would have so much in this world. Because there are people out there who unlike me, have passion for the ‘practical’ jobs too. Not everyone is out there wanting to be a writer, a musician or a painter. There are a lot of people out there who want to be doctors, teachers, finance advisors and café owners. And If more people could follow those passions… I don’t think I could even imagine that world and how good it would be. Unfortunately, even those who have the socially acceptable dream, are also often stunted by the lack of basic needs and dollar bills to make it a reality. And so many people settle for the things they think they deserve, or for the things they think life has sorted them. And I wish more people would rebel against it. I wish more people wanted to find the answers no matter how small. So we could come together and build something new. Because well as individuals we can come up with ideas, having others can make things become real.

Which seems radical. But it really isn’t. But it could be flagged as such. By even suggesting that society makes it hard to create because of the way we have to work, and give up so much of our time to an outdated system, leaves me open to being flagged as a problem. I mean look at how many books get banded on the principal that it suggested something outside of the acceptable norms. Even basic fact, can become the enemy when it suggest that the average person deserves to exist and understand their body…

So when I sit here and try and write, that we live in a world that is trying to make it hard to create and express ourselves. I find that instead of pointing out how the world is causing my struggles. I immediately turn to myself and wonder what I am doing wrong. What am I not doing to create. And the answer is, nothing. If I want to create I have to do more. I have to work longer and find the small moments of time to create. And that’s exhausting. Even though I love it, it’s draining me. Because I want to make so much. But after you take out getting ready, working, sleeping, commuting, and basic care of home and body. The time left to create isn’t as big as you may thing. And I don’t have the answers on how to change it. I have hope that one day I will. But right now, while my inner child is flourishing and healing. While she is creating and just living for the moments where she can express herself and bring things into existence. The inner teenager is still screaming. She is still asking, what is the point? What is the point of this if I will never have the time to practice as much as I want, have the tools I need? How am I suppose to exist when I am so mad? How do I keep creating, when there is pressure to conform, pressure to survive, and pressure to do the ‘adult’ thing?

My hope is that, one day I will have the answer for her. One day she will look back on these ramblings. These blog posts she posted. The ones that didn’t have a solid essay structure, a point to the story, or even a purpose. And go… I made this. I made this even though it wasn’t perfect. It didn’t make sense. It’s no where near the quality of stuff I make now, and it’s buried in the ether of a thousand posts. I made this…. Because I didn’t want to just conform to what I thought I was suppose to be. I didn’t give up on myself. When everything else seemed like a sign to quit.. I didn’t give up on myself.