I’m not proud of being proud, but a degree of pride underpins every work I undertake. There is an ugly little obsession with proving that I have something – something difficult to quantify and express, something unique and therefore valuable. There’s some sort of hole in my brain and I’m trying to craft something to fit into it, some kind of insatiable narcissistic parasite living inside me crying to be heard. I bounce back and forth between wanting to surgically remove this part of myself, this eternally incomplete and insatiable paradox, and wanting to rely on it for motivation, use its hunger as sustenance.
There are probably artists who don’t feel this way, maybe, I guess – their existence is plausible anyway. I haven’t met any. It seems difficult not to have this need to prove oneself, existing in the current context of art which is made to be experienced discretely, wholly, consuming one’s entire attention for potentially days on end. To merely make this demand for attention surely requires a huge and rapacious ego, and for a conscientious and thoughtful individual that must mean constantly searching for proof that such an ego is somehow justified. Meanwhile, art is concurrently elevated and devalued, something divine and ethereal and therefore priceless and therefore not worth being compensated for. What kind of damage might lead one to this career within this context? What egotism could lead one to crave attention and reflected love over more material comforts, safety and well-being? A hole in the brain. But here we are.
Something I’ve been thinking about, something I need to deal with, is the certain knowledge that whatever it is I make, do, say, whatever reactions I elicit, whatever money I make, isn’t actually going to satisfy this need I’ve fostered. I could be wrong: It’s possible that there is some magic formulation of success that will actually satisfy something inside me. It’s not something I’m going to bet on. It’s not something I’m going to plan on. It is somewhat demoralizing to realize that this whatever-it-is I’m working towards may feed but won’t sate the need. In fact, even if I succeed beyond my wildest ambitions, based on my past behavior I think it’s very likely that I’ll quickly work on tuning out any positive reinforcement I receive from success and amplifying my dissatisfaction – to motivate myself to work that much harder. That’s the feedback loop I’ve built around myself, like a hamster wheel, always traveling and never arriving.
And yet, isn’t satisfaction a dead end? Maybe I’ve gravitated towards hunger and irritability because these are what I value – these are what keep me moving forward, thinking, making. There is a balance to be sought: Somewhere is a life where I always want more but am happy with what I have, where I always look into the future without hating the past. It’s not where I am now but, well, I suppose it’s one among these many worthy goals to aspire to.