I think my life would be a lot easier if I wasn’t obsessed with truth. Truth in all things. I badger the people I love about getting to the bottom of things – why did you do that, why do you think that, why, why, why.
Sometimes it feels inevitable that my life took this turn. A writer asks questions. A writer tries to make sense of human nature. And what bigger question is there than who runs the world – who creates reality?
In no way do I think I am unique in asking these questions. I think a lot of people do, and I think that’s why all these ‘truther’ movements are popping up. As marketing and image-obsession increasingly seep into all aspects of our lives, people are eventually bound to start craving truth, honesty and beauty, which all used to be found in art. But even art is an endless marketing campaign now. Maybe it always was, who knows.
So then the artist turns to reality – how can I shatter these walls around me? How can I make a space that is bigger and more free?
It doesn’t have to be an all consuming obsession. Push against the boundaries of reality too much and you are bound to go mad. But the unease is always there, creating an unsteady foundation. I don’t try to fix it. I accept sadness as a counterweight to happiness, because I have known them both. I accept that there are questions I will never have answered, some because they are cloaked in shadow, some because science hasn’t caught up with them yet. And some because I didn’t ask, and now too much time, space and distance have passed and the answers matter to none but me. An artist needs unanswered questions and unfinished moments.
I used to think I would live forever, like all teenagers do. I fantasized that I would be unearthly rich and that by the time I was old someone would have invented freezing technology that allowed you to time-travel through the future – un-freezed and thawed once every century so that I could take a look around at all the advances made – before going back to sleep. That way all the answers would be revealed to me and I wouldn’t have to miss out on a single truth.
The artist fancies herself special. It took a while, and a lot of growing, for me to realize all living things fancy themselves special. These days I revel in being ordinary. Fortunate in the lottery of birth, educated and encouraged to follow my curiosities, a lovely home, lovely family. I’m no more or less depressed than most people. There are a million things I could change about myself, and a million things I should feel more content with. Average. Ordinary. Do you know how special that is?
We need art to make sense of humanity. We need philosophy to guide morals, integrity and justice. These endeavors are not useless; quite the opposite. And when all else fails ask yourself the immortal question: why so serious? No one here gets out alive.
