the Immortality of the Artist
I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita. ― Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
What do you think happens when we die? What about after? Do you think that it is possible to rise above the madness, tyranny, and chaos of human life, and slip seamlessly into a realm no human has ever gone before? A place so mystical, time ceases to exist? A place where you become formless, boundless, and eternal? If you are not human, than what you? A spirit, a soul? Nothing? Do we just die?
For one, I do not hold the secrets to the mysteries of human existence. Moreover, I do not claim to know anything more or anything less than the priest or the elegy man. I am simply a human girl, doing my best with the evidence and experience I have gained already through my life thus far in order to piece together an impossible puzzle. But the impossibility of the puzzle will not hold me from trying.
As in a previous article where I gave some thoughts about the martyrdom of the artist, on this fine spring day we will be discussing something similar, but also different: the immortality of the artist.
What makes an artist immortal? Is it through his work or though the wisdom he shares in his work? Does he only exist within the minds of others after die dies? In that case, if he is forgotten, that would mean he would die absolutely. Is he a deity?
If you considered whoever wrote the Christian bible an artist than the answer is yes. They do live forever. In the minds, anyways.
You see, as talented as artists may seem to the general public there is one truly fatal weakness most cannot dare to admit to. What is required of an artist is a steady amount of some sort of delusion, or loss of touch which what humans call “reality” in order to create such fantastical works.
Am I, you might ask, alluding to the idea that religion as a whole is somehow some part of a collective shared delusion brought upon by none other than an artist himself? As someone who comes from a religious background, yes, yes dear reader, I am.
Every artist has his own unique mode of expression. Some through music, some through writing. In the world of media, celebrities, and fame those there is a potential that an individual has been so very commodified that while they are musically talented, fall short of being a true artist.
If you, as an artist, are not able to express your true self freely through your work, and instead opt your work to fit the steep ever-changing tides of viewing pleasure, all you are is a product, a mere trend. Trends come and they go. I’m sure everyone knows who Justin Bieber is. But what about in twenty, thirty years?
Imagine this: You play “Yummy” at your children’s 12th birthday party thinking they will like it and they will scream at you to turn it off. (Rightfully so.) Then, a strange sense of déjà vu hits you square into the chest. Your breathing becomes shallow. Didn’t you say the same thing when your dad tried to play some “old” song by the Beatles when you were a kid?
With the futility of fame and trends in mind, what does it take to become a true artist in this day and age? Not only within our respective crafts and or mediums of expression, but within our everyday lives?
To live forever, the artist must bare his raw soul through his work. Nothing must persuade the man himself to taint or otherwise alter what he had devised originally in his mind. Human interference has little to do with the heavenly work taking place within the divine realms, downloaded into the mind of the artist.
Will it be open to interpretation, criticism, or overall an unappreciative audience? Well, of course it can! That goes without saying. And everyone is entitled to their own opinion, no amount of art history lectures can sway the ignorant minds of this generation’s youth towards the more enlightened path of art appreciation.
However, the truth of the matter is, the beauty of the art is reflected within the joy or passion enduced within the creator by their creation. For example, a passion of mine is dancing. Admittedly, I do not claim to be a professional, intermediate, or even ametur.
What joy I derive from dancing is simply the fruit of my labor. It is why I drive an hour and a half away from the sparse, rural county I live in to the city to attend ballet classes in the city. It is not to be recognized as a dancer. It is to hold the hand of the girl that lives within me and say, “You don’t have to be perfect. You are worthy of love just as you are. Do whatever sets your heart on fire.”
Until I said those comforting words to her, it would not be possible for me to go to ballet lessons or write on Substack or do the things I do without expecting anything else other than personal fulfillment. Fear of lack is a disease more rampant than any global pandemic.
“They’re doing better than me,” you’d say, after someone you knew from high school went to Punta Cana over spring break, or someone else got in internship in New York. My dearest Substack reader, don’t you know there is more than enough to go around? What’s meant for you will find you! If you put your raging pride aside, it is only then that the goodness can flow in like the sun on the other side of the planet excitedly waiting to warm you on a spring way. The sun shines on everyone, does it not?
In all honesty, I couldn’t even be quiet enough to listen to the whims that set my heart on fire without first acknowledging and honoring the sensitive girl that lives within me. Like Spongebob once said in “Goofy Goober Rock”, your inner child can set you free from the maddness of the mundane.
We are never satisfied nowadays! What happened to passion or leisure? Does one pick up a book to read the book or to be immersed within the story?
I remember sitting at a bar at an open mic night a few weeks ago (where I sometimes perform, sing play guitar, whatever, if the tides are sitting right with me), and a man sitting next to me was lamenting about the lack of supposed success that was witheld from him while he did his work.
“I do not do it to be successful. I do it because it makes me happy,” I responded.
Astonished, as the man looked, he thanked me for my quick-to-tounge advice. I give plenty of advice, of course. Good advice. I always tell my friends to leave their live-in-rats of a boyfriend(s) and pursue lives of their own. I even tell my mom that about my father. However, my otherworldly wisdom and unempathtic logic makes me rather unpopular within the social sphere. Unpopularity aside, my point still stands.
Don’t stop creating art because you think you’re not going to be famous or recognized for it. In the modern digital age, fame is as fictituous as it is fleeting. Despite that cool exhibit everyone on instagram is talking about and going to, Van Gogh died a sad, poor man. His last words were famously, “this saddness will last forever,” after shooting himself in the chest.
When I visited the Van Gogh exhbit, it came as a pleasant surprise to me to see the VR rendition of his world. Through the VR goggles, I was able to time travel to the late nineteenth century Europe, and explore the world according to him, through his eyes. Of course, the developers had something to do with creating the VR presentation. No one can argue that it is only through the work of the man himself that we would know today what his bedroom looked like, or the town outside of where he lived.
If only he knew the cultural impact his art would have on the modern world within the digital era, would such a deep sadness still ravage within his bones and spirit?
My dear Vincent, you have lived forever. Thank you for splaying your soul for the entire world to enjoy.
<3
Jazzy
Reminds me of a former journalist I met, he went to school for journalism and spent 5+ years slaving away, being told what stories to write, how to write it, when to write it… doing journalism as a job left him no agency and it was exhausting, and he quit. Ended up in the army… left the army a couple years later tho and idk what he’s up to now but I do wonder sometimes.