art whore

[falcongrrl]

Lately I've had a lot of people telling me that I should try to be published.

I should probably define a lot. Dave is a given. There's also my mom, who keeps bringing it up each time I talk to her. I've been sharing a lot of NaPoe stuff with Carla and Lizzy, so now they're telling me. Carla has even offered to do some of the administrative stuff for me, to light the proverbial fire under my ass, even though we both know that she doesn't have any extra time in which to do that. (Neither do I, really. Or, at the very least, it feels that way, which is part of the problem.)

"You have a gift, and you have to let it out into the world," Carla tells me. "The world will embrace it more than you think. Don't let your fear keep you from it. There's so much in your poetry that's universal. People - women especially - can benefit from it."

I say thank you, and smile, and nod my head, and say thank you again, and feel discomfited. And then I kind of poke at myself for feeling that way. It's a compliment, for god's sake. And she's - they're - right, I should at least be trying. Even though it feels a bit like playing the lottery, the odds are perhaps slightly better that it will pay off, though I'm more likely to make $10 on the scratch-off cards than win millions in the game with balls.

But I'm so fucking hesitant.

And everyone chalks that up to fear. And I can't tell them they're wrong, not exactly. I don't know that I'm not afraid.

In the dealer's room at FC, I saw these buttons or shirts or something that said, "art whore." I saw at least one artist, maybe more, wearing them. And I could see where's a kind of feel to what artists do at cons of turning tricks, at least how I'd imagine that to be. Taking someone's sketchbook into your hands, writing something orgasmic upon it, giving it back. Circles of giving and taking and pleasuring. And then, afterwards, the money exchanging hands.

And I don't mean this to be some sort of criticism, veiled or otherwise, of commissioned artists. I think the whole experience must vary: beautiful (when done well), and exploitative (when done sloppily), probably something along the lines of sex itself. The money is almost an afterthought to the agreement, that small point in time of 'this is what I want' and 'yes, I can do that' from which everything else flows in spasms of line and color.

The thing is, and this is the wince-worthy analogy: if I were voluntarily sharing physicality with someone, with all of the moans and murmurs and fingertips gently sweeping in arcs of playful joy...if I were kissing and licking and stroking...afterwards, would the person get up and say, enthusiastically, "You know, that was so great. My god. Everyone should experience this. Why don't you do this - for LOTS of people - and...you know what? They can pay you."

And I'm not saying that would be immoral. This isn't some Swiftian proclamation, or at least, it's not meant to be. This is me examining this and saying, pretty matter-of-factly, 'What is the difference?' Carla and I have joked before about housewives who give blowjobs for money, about the fact that we're bisexual contributing to a certain versatility if we were in that line of work. And yes, it's a joke, but the joke springs (sorry!) from actual need. Not need of sex but need of funds, which leads to the thought of trading one commodity for another.

I guess, what I think no one other than me realizes - or maybe others do, and find ways of making their peace with it - is that on some level the words are more intimate. The poetry is definitely more intimate. It's digging down and bringing something back. Whether the 'something' is dreck or genius (and I'm borrowing that phrase) depends upon perspective, but it surely comes from a secret place...deeper than that actual physical spot inside me and frankly, more difficult to find. *sheepish grin*

Is every single thing I write that way? No, of course it's not. But I think that the better stuff is. Is it better to write the equivalent of "Mary Had A Little Lamb" and shop it to publications who are looking for that sort of thing? Or is that kind of compromise for money what true 'selling out' is about? Is it better to hand my heart and soul to an editor I've never met and ask him about the dollar value, or is it more crafty, more craftworthy, to size him up, find out what he likes and give it to him? The latter seems more sane in some respects and more...limited in others. Part of the problem is that if I write - whether I'm writing crap or something better - I want it to be from the deep places; I want it to mean something. To me, if to no one else.

I don't know if I want to be published. Maybe this is a simple manifestation of fear. Maybe it's sour grapes, a 'no one will appreciate me so fuck them (but not in the literal sense of the phrase).'

But it also feels like this: if I reach out for your hand in the darkness, if I let my fingertips drift lazily over your skin, intoxicated with nearness and intimacy...I want you to know that I'm doing this for the simple pleasure of it, for you, for the act itself. The experience is payment. And if you can savor the moment, the words - if they can reach down into the deeper parts of you - then that's all the reciprocity that I can, or want, to ask for.

Comments

[jenny_evergreen]

You're not alone. I understand.

[gleefulfreak.livejournal.com]

I think there are two separate issues here. One is whether or not you want to make a genuine effort to have your words read by a much wider audience, which is what I think your family and Carla are pushing for (and I would agree), and the other is whether or not you feel right receiving money for it.

Honestly, even as you pursue the first option, I think the second isn't going to come up that much for a while. Most places won't pay much of anything for a poem until you've published a ton of stuff for free (or only for something token like a copy of the magazine it was printed in).

Creative efforts and sexual energy are sourced in the same chakra (the one at genital level) so it's understandable that you might think of them in the same way. (I used to get obsessed with sex when I wasn't singing enough, or start writing poetry frantically.)

But if we decouple (hee hee) the act of creating art from the act of lovemaking, consider that remuneration in any form (energy, service, items, money) is a way of recognizing the value of that artwork. It's a way of saying "this thing of beauty which you have created and given to me is worth something from me in return". You may decide that you only want certain forms of remuneration - gratitude, payment in kind, paying it forward, charitable donation (which is another option - you could choose to donate any proceeds to a charity, and look at it not as you receiving money for your love but as being an instrument through which beauty comes to the world and money goes to somewhere it is needed).


It is possibly the best reason TO write, that you do it for joy, for its own sake. No one wants to read someone who cranks out another poem for the money and recognition. We want to read someone who's a little bit drunk on words, who is as much in love with the art form as we are.

[shaterri.livejournal.com]

I understand, too. As gleefulfreak suggests, I think there are other ways of thinking about it... but so much of your writing feels so intimate, so personal, that it's hard to imagine it being anything but a private experience...

[virtualcourtney.livejournal.com]

I feel like I'm among the lucky to be privy to some of your poetry. It's beautiful, and I'm glad you share it at all, in any way, so that I might read it. :)

[rowyn]

But it also feels like this: if I reach out for your hand in the darkness, if I let my fingertips drift lazily over your skin, intoxicated with nearness and intimacy...I want you to know that I'm doing this for the simple pleasure of it, for you, for the act itself. The experience is payment. And if you can savor the moment, the words - if they can reach down into the deeper parts of you - then that's all the reciprocity that I can, or want, to ask for.

Mew.

*prrr*prrr*prrrr*