Saturday night my husband, Stephen, and I went to Nuit Blanche-a contemporary art event in Toronto with artistic installations set up around the city. These installations, the buildings that host them, and many a Starbucks, run until 5:30 in the morning, so it’s kind of a big deal. Every year I don’t understand it, every year I’m cold, and every year I still feel compelled to be a part of the throngs of diverse people crowding the downtown streets that have been shutdown for the night.
This year was no different, except this time I wore my grey beret because I’ve become way more artistic since last October. Making our way down a busy street, I noticed a police officer with braided pigtails who looked to be about twelve years old.
“Kind of young for law enforcement, isn’t she?” I asked my husband.
“No, that’s part of the art,” he said.
“What’s part of the art?”
“She is,” he said nodding at her, “She’s part of the art.”
Sure enough, a large poster detailing the installation explained that people dressed up as police officers would be fake arresting random people, based on certain unidentified characteristics, and then would be fake processing them in a fake police station. Having a couple of friends who work in the criminal justice system and do some version of this for a living, I had difficulty appreciating the artistic nature of this but in keeping with the work as a whole, I just faked it.
“Interesting,” I said, stroking my chin pensively.
Next we came upon a series of large portraits of sex dolls. Each print displayed a close-up of a girl you would never bring home to your mother, accompanied by a quote from the doll’s owner (boyfriend?) on the reverse. According to the artist’s blurb, he sought to capture the heart (penis?) of the growing community of men who have full-time relationships with sex dolls. I had no idea there was such a community or that they had such a proclivity for the arts but reading some of the quotes, I could understand the preference for plastic and vinyl. Women sounded awful!
“A doll never keeps you waiting,” said DollGuy82, “And they never break your heart.”
“You don’t have to worry about saying the right thing to a doll,” said BlowupLove.
Now that’s just silly. BlowupLove is setting an unreasonably high standard for himself. I never expect my husband to say the right thing. Case in point. We joined a big group of people crowded around a large spotlight in the middle of the road. The installation’s explanation invited people to do something in the bright light but the circle sat empty,with onlookers pushing for a better view. After some brave souls kissed one another and danced around to rousing applause I pulled Stephen to do the Dirty Dancing lift with me.
“But I can’t lift you up like that on the concrete,” he said.
“So now you think I’m fat?”
“Of course I don’t think you’re fat.”
“So what is it, I don’t look good enough for you? You don’t want to be seen with me?”
“You look fine!”
“Just ‘fine?'”
I stomped off to the closest coffee shop to drown my weight gain worries in a large vanilla bean latte. Emerging from the shop, my cup rattled in my hand from the vibrations of a loud beating sound. Moving towards the noise, we stopped to watch three men pound away at drums. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. This time I didn’t need to read the description. I knew that the continuous beat symbolized the impermanentness of the human body as it gives way to illness and age. Obviously.
Having now finished my treat for the night, I was ready to head home. Resting my head on Stephen’s shoulder as we sat on the subway, I wondered about the people behind these works. I marvelled at the confidence these artists had displayed. However strange or weird, these people devoted time and effort into something they believed in, something they thought worth showcasing. I, on the other hand, am plagued with self-doubt, especially when it comes to something as subjective as writing. Despite all my worrying and second guessing, how I turn every word over in my head and want to immediately delete absolutely every single thing that I write, I am comforted that at the very least I share something fundamental with other artists: devotion to a craft. I write because I can’t imagine doing anything else. I can’t bear the thought of doing anything else. Whether my work is good or not and whether I ever achieve my dream of publishing a book, I write because I love writing. Just like that photographer loves taking pictures of blowup sex dolls. It’s all the same, really, and that’s why I shouldn’t laugh.
But why do you assume these artists have such confidence? I strongly suspect most of them are plagued by the same self-doubt as yourself, they just don’t make their self-doubt part of their art, as you do. Remember, you’re someone who, uh, posts a blog that can be potentially seen by billions and billions of people. This is not an activity generally associated with people immobilized by self-doubt. I believe that most truly creative people continually question themselves and their work. As they should. After all, being creative means doing something that hasm’t been done before, and when you’re doing something for the first time — something that is unproven by anyone’s previous experience — there is always a quite reasonable chance that it will suck. It is sensible that this might inspire a degree of anxiety…
Interesting point Dan. These artists may also be plagued with self-doubt. I’m just taken with the fact that their sheer love of sex doll photography, or whatever conventional or unconvenitonal work that they do, clearly eclipses their doubts long enough for them to put something out into the world. I can relate to that.
Ditto! You have a craft, a skill and you continuously hone it. The fact that you question yourself means you take your talent to heart and always want to give it your best. You have many readers (including me)…when it doubt let it be a reminder you are doing and sharing something really special. Look forward to the next blog : )
JR, your encouraging words mean so much to me and I so appreciate you taking the time to share them. I am framing your comment at this very moment to put over my desk. I intend to read it over whenever I am feeling unsure of things and want to throw in the towel.
You create something. You put it ‘out there’ for people to read. Or look at. Or listen to.
And then form an opinion on.
Your writing is your baby, your creation and you want everyone to love it as you do. I think I know exactly how you feel. It is a leap of trust. You put your magnum opus on display and pray that people will be kind. It leaves you hanging.
Exposed.
I don’t always ‘get’ today’s art. Or music. Or writing. But I agree. They have done exactly what we do. Put their creations on display.
And then prayed that someone will love it.
I love your writing.
Keep it up!!!
Your description is so apt Diane. That’s exactly it, the process leaves you hanging in such a vulnerable way. I love your writing too, so I will only keep it up if you will!
read this! its great.
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=268277936538255&set=a.245135282185854.67775.194266827272700&type=1&theater
I love this Maya! Thank you so much for sharing it. I am putting it over my desk right beside JR’s comment. I better start producing things faster so I can get all the really horrible stuff out of the way!
Wendy, you take your process, neuroses and all, and make art out of it. Wonderful art. You say things in a way nobody else could. Your hard work shines through in every sentence. Thank you for sharing what you go through when writing and, despite it all, how much you love it. Boy, do I relate. Your post was a perfect way to start my day.
Thank you so much June! Your comment was a perfect way to start mine!
I can also relate, definitely. (To you, that is, less to the blow up doll thing.)
Also, I often have difficulty appreciating art the way I feel I should, which makes me feel somehow less of a writer. While aware that this makes no sense, since my passion involves words and not paint or clay or other physical substance (besides caffeine), it persists.