Art-making as Joy-making
The expression of life—of meaningful experiences and ideas—through artistic mediums has always been important to me. When I was young, after my older brother got his driver’s license, he would drive us to the city an hour away to watch newly released movies in the theatre. We’d spend the entire drive home in deep discussion about the film’s special effects, storyline, cinematography, acting and directing choices. I was awed by a film’s ability to immerse us in another world, cinematically and sonically majestic, where the plot became our own. The struggle. The fear. The hope. The victory! So many times we left the theatre and drove home into the darkness of a late night filled with excitement and inspiration from the incredible thing we’d just experienced. That feeling of being transported to another place, of transcending whatever else was going on in the world, was a near-constant driving force in my need to be an artist, whether it arose from reading, writing, watching a film, or playing music.
While visiting with a friend recently, I mentioned to her that perhaps if I’d grown up in a different time and place I’d have pursued formal education in filmmaking instead of music, because of how meaningful those trips to the theatre with my brother were. I’m not surprised that I’m finding great joy in creating YouTube videos now, even if they are amateurish and mostly outdoor gear reviews or simplistic vlog-style trip reports (all part of the learning process). I’ve created a few cinematic poems that are closer to the expressive style I really want to create in that space, and last week I began working on a documentary short about why I started backpacking The Colorado Trail with my late dog, Mani, seven years ago, and why I still want to complete it with the two dogs I have now, despite seemingly endless obstacles. Already I can feel the deep sense of personal joy that comes from creating a meaningful work of art, even—or perhaps especially—as a complete amateur in the genre. No rules. No expectations. Just experimenting and learning as I go. God, that’s fun. I had forgotten.
I’m not formally trained as a writer, either. I scored good grades in creative writing courses in high school and undergrad and was told more than once as a grad student that my academic writing was good (though I could never resolve the difference between academic style writing and my much more colloquial style of speaking). I write because I love words and their power to connect and heal. But I felt a lot of pressure during my doctoral program, particularly after I was (falsely) accused of plagiarism by a popular magazine in my field, and I became utterly terrified to write anything for a very, very long time. In fact, I’m still recovering from that experience fifteen years later.
I’m not formally trained as a photographer, either. I photograph because I’m moved by what I see, both real and imagined, human and more-than-human, and I desire to share that with others. “When words become unclear,” Ansel Adams said, “I shall focus with photographs…”
I am formally trained as a musician, I think because it was the only genre of art that seemed accessible to me beyond mere consumption. Both grandfathers played by ear (guitar, fiddle, harmonica), but it was being able to take formal piano lessons in grade school that allowed me to imagine music as a potential career choice. I knew I was an artist, that I needed fulfilling work that allowed me to be expressive, but from my little rural place on earth (in the land before internet), I didn’t know what was possible. Music seemed possible, so that’s the path I took.
While I often feel compelled to begin composing music again, something I haven’t done since my undergrad days, I no longer own an instrument, nor do I possess a desire to play anymore, so it’s less an option for self-expression these days. I could write more about that, and perhaps will someday, but for now I’ve simply changed course and tried to stay focused on more positive approaches to art-making.
Creating videos is entirely new to me, which means that in order to do it, I have to allow myself to explore from an entirely new space. It’s difficult to articulate, and perhaps seems silly given the content on my channel right now, but it’s actually been a pretty profound experience. I’ve rediscovered the simple joy in the process of creating. Sadly, that’s a concept that three degrees and a good bit of toxicity and trauma had mostly stripped out of me.
I think the point of this essay is to say that for some, creating is a necessity, not a luxury. We try to make it our living, because for us it’s a way of being. But sometimes we get caught up in the perils of social acceptance (or lack thereof) and traditional success (or failure). At this point in my life, if I was asked to give advice to younger artists, it might sound something like this:
Don’t ever lose the sheer child-like joy and curiosity of art-making.
Don’t ever lose sight of your why. Everyone has one. It’s what drives us to get up every morning and keep at it, no matter how hard it gets.
Do it for yourself. This approach isn’t selfish. It’s necessary in order to make real connections with others. There are people out there who need your perspective. Yourvoice. Your art. Eventually they will find you.
Be patient.
There will be people who don’t understand your why. It doesn’t matter. There will be others who do.
Protect your heart, because it’s guaranteed to break more than a few times. Make art through the heartbreak.
Keep learning and growing. Become friends with your fears. It’s okay to be afraid, but you’ve gotta keep moving.
If you quit, make sure it’s your choice. Not someone else’s. If quitting is not what you really want, but you feel utterly exhausted and depleted of the joy and curiosity that art-making should inspire, it’s time to add more tools to your toolbox. Shift gears. Go back to the basics. Become a beginner again. Reinvent yourself.
Most of all, be kind to yourself. Being vulnerable is hard and it’s not getting any easier. Choose carefully how much of yourself you share with the world, in what spaces, and at what cost.
Be well, dear friends.
