Failure,
I don’t know how to keep going. I don’t want to keep going. By going I mean waking up every day, making coffee, reading the awful news, going to the job I only have because I need to pay the bills, calling my representatives during my lunch break and feeling hopeless, going home only to stare at the wall or a blank canvas and try to convince myself I’m really the painter I want to be or maybe eventually can be.
Recently an old friend came to town and asked me if I was still painting. I was surprised by this question because I couldn’t believe she’d think I’d stop. Every big life decision I’ve made has been in support of my art. Everything I do is with my desire and need to paint in mind. I realized she didn’t get that. That for her, art is a side project or hobby or just something you do to pass the time. For me, art has always felt like my purpose, the only thing that makes sense and makes life feel tolerable.
I know this might be unfair, but her attitude made me feel sick. I wanted to leave immediately, even though I knew even at that moment my reaction was not really about her. I am sick of living in a world that is so cruel, so power hungry, so money-obsessed, so violent and so lacking in love for humanity and life. I say this as someone who is very much an introvert and very much loves people but often doesn’t like them very much.
I don’t know how to reckon with the absurdity of waking up every morning, knowing genocide is actively taking place—supported by the government I pay taxes to—not to mention the mass displacement of people in the Congo, 2023 apparently being the hottest year on record, idiot billionaires distracting from the real issues with their grotesque egos, and little old me calling my representatives praying if there is enough of us doing so, maybe we will finally be heard.
I feel hopeless. Despite what the majority of people want, whether that be an elected leader or demanding a ceasefire, somehow those in positions of power who are willing to abuse that power continue to win and destroy so much that is good and beautiful.
Nothing makes sense to me except painting and that makes me feel pathetic and small. How do I go on? How do we go on?
Hopeless
Dear Hopeless,
You haven’t heard from me in a few weeks because I have been asking myself similar questions. I too have been feeling quite hopeless. Your words about your relationship to painting are beautiful, and they have stirred some hope in me despite what you said about your love for your art making you feel pathetic and small.
I have often felt the same about my relationship with writing. I also deeply understand how dismissive it can feel when someone treats your art practice as though it’s something you do to pass the time because you don’t have anything better to do, rather than the deep calling it is for so many of us—even when we may sometimes wish we were hobbyists or people who are more easily fulfilled by domestic life and regular jobs than we are.
Not everyone understands. And you’re also not alone.
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