Brain Damage

Last year, I had so much work that it started to feel like being a full-time independent artist wasn’t the worst possible thing one could choose.  But, that’s being somewhat disingenuous.  Most anyone who is self-employed will tell you that there is almost no such thing as “regular” work for us reprobates. “It’s a roller coaster,” is how we often describe it. The highs are splendid; the lows descending to the depths of desperation.  My own story is certainly no exception.  Some have suggested that these stresses contribute to the creative spirit. It’s the old “tortured soul” idea.  To me, that just sounds a little too pat, as if the person espousing this notion needs some sort of spitable bit of gristle to eschew, and call it out for its unpalatability, despite a good flavor.

You’ve likely heard that many, if not most successful artists suffer from depression, anxiety; a full roster of strains in mental maladies, enough to keep a head shrink perpetually in boat payments – that is, were it not for the fact that few artists can actually afford therapy.  We transform our anguish into endeavors of artistic expression, so they say.  But, I regard that notion askance.  I don’t see how such debilitating and destructive forces can be given direct credit for inspiring the production of so many wonderful, fanciful, uplifting and exciting works.  My own experience is that when I’m down, I am definitely and decidedly not in the mood to do anything creative.  Does that make me unusual for my species? I dunno, don’t much care.  Leave me alone, dammit!

So, if not one’s demeanor, then in what corner of the mind, broken or not, does creative motivation reside?  But, that’s such a presumptive question, even for neuroscience.  I mean, really, those folks can’t even tell you the true nature of cognizance!  For me, though, the best of what I’ve been able to conjure up has been the result of the confluence or simultaneous emergence of a pair of mental conditions, or events.  The first is a near pathological release of control on what I think, or say; often socially inappropriate. Sometimes, I feel like I do it on purpose, perhaps as a coping mechanism for the absurdity of certain situations, like having to wait in line to receive something unpleasant.

The other condition is a kind of transcendence; a mental shifting to a different plane of thinking. There is a sensation of three-dimensional space, yet at the same time, in a kind of void. Some might describe it as a meditation. For me, this state can last, or be maintained, from minutes into hours, but often only for seconds.  Some of my favorite ideas have arrived whole from the briefest of these dalliances.  It’s as though someone had been preparing in the wings, waiting for the right moment to come onstage.

Whatever you want to call it, these things are largely an unconscious process.  I’ve heard psychologists explain that much of what we think of as intentional conscious behavior is initiated quite unconsciously.  And, untutored in the subject as I am, I feel no less confident in going the rest of the way with that idea: that nearly everything anybody ever does can be attributed to subconscious motivation.  So, I’m still not off the hook in explaining the causality of creative endeavor.  To be honest, though, I really have limited interest in probing the psyche for the origins of artistic behavior, much less any bona fide credentials.  It’s just a little too messy.  One could argue that the state of depression involves ruminative processes, and thereby sets the table for creative thought processes. All conjecture.

What I do know, is that I happen to have an innate sense of curiosity, be it developed or inherited, I can only speculate, coupled with an appetite for mental stimulation.  Most every artistic endeavor I’ve indulged can be connected directly to this fact.  What I make, I make in response to a sort of intellectual and/or sensory itch; a conjectural agonist, if you like.  I am constantly evaluating questions that arise from long-chain observations and deductions that arise from daily experience.  Sometimes these inquiries are initiated by others; sometimes from within.  For example, someone might ask if I know something that involves a familiarity with a certain topic or discipline.  That can result in the formation of a supposition or revelation that hasn’t previously occurred to me.  Thus inspired, and with a trip to the basement workshop of my sub-conscious, an artwork may suggest itself as an argument in support of a related, or analogous, or even counter-intuitive notion that is perhaps worth positing.

I say “perhaps” because having a great idea is not the same as having an idea worth inflicting on the real world.  In fact, ninety-nine percent of what results from this process should probably never see the light of day.  In my basement mental workshop, after all, I’m just as likely to indulge in all manner of exceedingly nasty business.  I once asked a psychiatrist friend why it was that even while engaged in the most enjoyable of activities, I am wont to mentally conjure the most hideous of things.  Much to my surprise, he said, “Me too.”  Then he offered that perhaps it’s a kind of Thanatos; a death instinct.  To this day, I don’t quite know what to make of that. Is it analogous with the machinery in every cell of the body that tells it when it’s time to die?  But, there I go again, delving into the psyche.  It’s awfully dark down there. And, even if there’s nothing there that isn’t also there when all is lit, maybe my sense of self-preservation would just as soon not look!