life is a form of art, and the most important thing an artist should learn to do is pay attention.
you know that feeling when you finally start working on something you’ve been putting off for god knows how long, and it just won’t go?
so then you try a different approach: stop telling the thing what you want it to be and instead tune in and listen to it. it’s initially uncomfortable — all those months of planning and strategising down the drain! — but suddenly, all the friction disappears, and the thing practically makes itself.
a book idea you had wants to be a podcast; a podcast wants to be a standup set; and some projects, you realise, don’t want to be anything because you never really wanted to do them to begin with — you merely enjoyed the idea!
it’s a beautiful thing. and the closest i have come to magic so far.
i experience it almost every time i write anything, including this piece.
i’ve long learned that no matter how many notes and ideas you jot down about a potential writing project, outlining the details of what you want, it will always be what it wants to be, and you can’t know what that is in advance.
it will be — something — and the only way to find out is to sit down and start typing.
a typical (my) reaction at witnessing how the thing is going awry is frustration.
was all this preparation for nothing?!
but it wasn’t for nothing. the notes you’ve made helped you build momentum in whatever you’re trying to do. they put you in the right frame of mind. they helped you begin, which, as you know, is the hardest thing.
the same philosophy works for life. many constrain themselves into labels based on the old ideas of who they thought they were. maybe it was what the world (read: parents) wanted them to be; maybe it was something they held on to for security. like a project that wants to be a song, but you force it to be a navel-gazing essay, some people feel as if they have to pigeonhole themselves into the thing they understand — or can explain to others.
but if art-making teaches us anything, the best projects come spontaneously and are never understood at the onset, even (especially!) by the person making the art.
you have no idea what you’re making, but feel with your gut there’s something there — a pea underneath layers of mattresses. so you begin digging and hoping that it’s all not for nothing.
guarantees? forget it.
the art of living lies in letting go of your preconceived notions about yourself. which is the second thing an artist should learn to do.
letting. go.
a confession: sometimes i feel like i have no idea who i am. for as long as i can remember, i told myself who i should be instead of paying attention. which is to say, sometimes, when i am aware enough of what’s happening inside, i am surprised by the urges, wants, and needs that spring up. they don’t fit in the image i’ve concocted about myself.
surely, if i define myself as a journalist, i shouldn’t even be thinking about doing standup comedy. surely, if my medium is writing, i shouldn’t try to make music. these are banal examples, but you get the point. like many others, it’s hard for me to let go.
part of the problem is my discipline – or masochism, depending on how you look at it. i am too good at forcing myself to do things, especially things i would rather not do; it’s almost an instinct. which is great when you run a marathon: you clench your fists, grit your teeth and move on, step by step. it might even be helpful when you are writing or working on a big project. but as one popular business writer said, there’s nothing so useless as doing something efficiently that shouldn’t have been done at all.
so maybe the solution is not to have a blueprint at all. then you wouldn’t need to let go of anything, right? but a better option would be to have one still — plan your life, define your values, journal all you want, write an outline for your novel for all you want — just realise: the end result will be entirely different.
the project's vision never turns into reality, and that’s not the point of vision anyway. the point of vision is to give you a direction, to get you going.
there was an installation at nyc’s moma by refik anadol, which my ex-wife and i attended last summer. you’ve probably seen it; it has gone viral. a giant screen with moving abstract images was before the museum entrance. things were moving, colours changing, and it was hard to say exactly what it was. because it’s not one thing — it’s an ai installation that’s many things at once — it’s art in motion, constantly evolving, ever in flux.
the name of the installation is “unsupervised.”
when i think about a good metaphor for self-definition or art making, that’s the closest thing i’ve come across. playing catch by trying to assign a label (what’s it now? and now? now??) is a race you’re destined to lose. you’re never one thing; you’re constantly changing. so stop trying to understand and instead accept whatever is happening — in your life and your art.
act as if you don’t know what you’re doing.
be unsupervised.
the key, as herbal tea boxes would tell you, is to live by the gut. the gut is silent — the recycled ideas from society screaming from our screens and in our minds are much louder — but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.
the gut speaks in whispers. tune in and listen. prepare to be surprised. brace yourself and let go.
living like that is scary — there’s no point of reference, nothing to fall back on, no blueprint for life. (has there ever been one?)
living like that is also exciting — it’s fun to see what else you can be; what versions of yourself you don’t even know are there. (some people die without ever tapping into that well of potentialities).
it seems that a lot of growing up — at any age, really — has to do with learning how to trust.
the world.
others.
yourself.
that things will somehow work out.
that it will be ok.
as with art, life happens only when you put down books and pencils, take a deep breath, and merely — begin.
because when you don’t resist, it has a chance of… y’know.
happening.
– s
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