THE DOCTOR IS IN

Last Saturday, I had the privilege of reading from and talking about my book at the Collingswood Book Festival. During the wide-ranging Q&A, a question was asked that has come up before, both in post-reading discussions and in response to some of my columns. This time, the question and response led to a much broader discussion that has continued in email, and since the topic relates to last week’s column and the very helpful comments it sparked, I want to address it here.

The gist of the question was: You write and talk as if all artists are equally gifted; as if all we need to do is dissolve those blocks, and presto—we’re Tolstoy. But what if someone just doesn’t have it? Isn’t it cruel to encourage them in a pursuit that can only lead to failure and disillusionment?

I gave the answer I usually give, the one I believe: that art that is not commercially viable—even art that is substandard by most aesthetic yardsticks—is still worth creating and sharing. Many of us are driven to express our inner vision through art, and when we suppress this need, we suffer for it. We are diminished, less ourselves, less fully human—and our families and communities are poorer for this loss.

As examples, I use my own “substandard” artistic endeavors—painting and music. I love painting, and have studied studio art on and off for over thirty years. I have also played recorder in early music groups. I am skilled enough to benefit from lessons and practice, and to enjoy sharing my work. I don’t have what it takes to be great, and no amount of toil or instruction will change that. Does that mean I should give it up? Why—so others won’t be burdened or offended by wrong notes or imperfect composition?   What do I owe them?

I have friends who enjoy acting in community theater. They find the rehearsal process inspiring and invigorating—the repeated examination and presentation of classic scripts unearths new insights and appreciation; the experience of searching for and discovering their characters deepens their understanding of themselves and of what it means to be human; and the camaraderie that develops among actors and crew can be strong and enduring. I seldom enjoy amateur productions—as a former serious actor, I find it hard to turn off my “inner critic”—but does that mean my friends should refrain from this fun and fulfilling pursuit?

I have studied painting and drawing with brilliant artists and with hacks. The hacks, without exception, focused on shaping work that would sell: on correcting “mistakes,” on guiding us toward media and subjects that were acknowledged to be important and immediate. The artists regarded each work as an expression of the student’s soul, and pushed us to delve deeper, to look harder, to develop the technique that would allow us to express our own vision as fully as possible. The question of whether my work was “good enough” might have come up if I had requested letters of recommendation for grants or introductions to gallery owners, but commercial viability was understood to be secondary to artistic striving—and my clumsy attempts were treated with as much seriousness and care as those of the undeniably gifted. I am a richer person and a more authentic artist thanks to their attention, even though my own mother would never be so blind as to buy one of my paintings.

Yet, as discussion participants pointed out, many of us feel deep shame at admitting that we write but are not yet published. Even those of us who have experienced enough acceptances and rejections to realize that quality is not a reliable predictor of external success fall into the trap of taking rejection slips as judgments of our worth as artists. And some corporation-published writers behave as though the self-published had cooties.

Our ancestors swapped tall tales around the fire. They sang, drummed, or fiddled, and danced in the moonlight. Most of them could never have snagged a top agent or made the first cut of American Idol. Should they not have bothered?

Of course we hope to create works of profound meaning and beauty that will transform the lives of millions. And few of us would turn down a healthy contract with a great publisher. But these are the happy results for a fortunate few, not the criteria for admission into the cool kids’ club. It is the struggle, the love, the commitment to beauty, authenticity, and expression, in a culture that prizes pragmatism and easy answers—not the size of our advance or even the excellence of our finished work—that bind us together and separate us from normal people.

All art is important. All artists are members of our clan. We lose sight of this at our peril.

Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. Her book,  Getting Unstuck Without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity, is now available in bookstores. Send your questions to her at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

Comments

[Jersey Jack]

Thanks, Doc. I really needed this speech today.

[Mardougrrl]

I think I am going to need to print this one out. Thank you, thank you,THANK YOU!

[M.J.]

Great post!!

[T]

Beautiful, Dr. Sue. Thank you!!

[caroline]

Beautifully put, Dr. Sue! (I wish I could have been at the book fair, too!)

[kate maloy]

Just wonderful, Dr. Sue. I especially loved the reminder of our ancestors dancing, singing, and telling stories around the fire. To me, that's the greatest accomplishment of any art--bringing everybody together, not elevating the artist.

[Dana King]

Well put. I have a day job now, and write in my spare time, in the hope of being published. My background, however, is musical. With a Masters degree from New England Conservatory, I played at a near-symphonic level; many of my classmates work in major orchestras today. Several years after I stopped play9ng professionally, I joined a community concert band. I had maybe 2/3 of my former skills, as was still probably the best player there, but I got as much, if not more, satisfaction and contentment from playing there than I ha for years. It allowed me to reconnect with the simple joy of playing the instrument, and reminded me of why I loved music so much in the first place.

There is a place for artistic endeavor at any level. It's only an issue when someone has false expectations, or unreasonable hopes.

[Jack O'Doherty]

Don't denigrate your paintings or your other artwork - - - you know that I have two of your masterpieces hanging up in my house! (I am Sue's brother)

[Nick Oliva]

What a truly wonderful essay! It's not about the fame and fortune. It's about doing what makes you feel good. If it doesn't fit into a square peg, so be it. Art is about the pleasure derived from creating it, to enhance and express the self. The encouragement of such is great as long as the person has the ability to understand that the danger lies in the psychosis of thinking they are something they are not, or if they are not willing to sacrifice, learn, and be prepared to accept many rejections to be what they dream.
Success is a relative term dependant on what one expects.
Great post!

[Susan O'Doherty]

Thank you all, clan members! Caroline, I wish you'd been there, too!

And, Jack--notice I didn't say my own BROTHER would be too blind--it's wonderful to have relatives whose taste is obscured by their affection.

[Susanne Dunlap]

Yes, this was incredible. Especially important to remember when one's work is out there being judged and rejected by editors for all those essentially commercial considerations. They have to do their job, and heaven knows earn their livelihood, but it's good to remember that even complete rejection doesn't mean the effort is unworthy.

Unfortunately, it's simply too easy to depend on the validation of commercial success, as if that's the only measure of worth. And that's partly because people who are not artists have no other way to judge work sometimes.

[Katharine Weber]

Just chiming in to agree with these comments. This is such an important issue, I hope it will be addressed some more here in various ways.

Writers are at risk for feeling exposed because we can be so easily held hostage by our culture's fantasies (do we secretly share them? Even though we know better?) about success and how much money is at stake around artistic production. If you play golf on weekends, even if you're good, nobody asks you when you are playing in the US Open. If you play the guitar, nobody asks you when you are signing with a label. Notice that we call it "play" when people strive to do well with those skills.

But if you write short stories and admit it, people will ask you why you aren't being published in The New Yorker. If you write novels, people ask you if they are published. The issue doesn't cease when you are published, either, because people will then ask you, strangely enough, "have I read your books?" or if you have thought of going on Oprah. But that's another column. I hope.

[wplasvegas]

I once read an article by Kurt Vonnegut the gist of which was that society developed in basic groups of twenty or so (the upper size limit of a hunter-gatherer tribe living off the land) and that all needed talent distributed itself amongst them. Take any twenty individuals and one will be humorous, one will be musical, one will be mechanical etc. Vonnegut maintained that in our modern society, professionals take over their functions, ie one out of a million guys who tell jokes becomes a comedian who goes on TV and makes twenty million people laugh, the others don't, so a lot of people are unappreciated and underemployed for what they do best. The article sympathizes with the plight of ordinary folk but offers no solution, so that it ends with the implied question, "What do people of ordinary talent do with skills society seems to no longer need?" I think your post is a good answer to this question.

If only 999,999 guys told jokes, I doubt TV would be much different, but only Joe Blow the salesman farting in the office break room can make you spit coffee all over the wall.

Writers are storytellers. If someone asks me if I'm published, I lie. I tell them I'm in the thrall of an evil agent who wants to sell me out but I can't break the contract without forking over oodles of cash. They fall for it every time.