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Abstract

nd passed his A level with an A, then studied Art at Uni in London, an MA, and then a BA — and then he hit the wall that we all hit: the edge of the cliff of education over which we pour like lemmings…I want to be a ahhhhhh —Unlike his other friends though, he had the guts to throw himself into the scene — a London artist, living in a little flat without any money, having the occasional show, partying with artists, going to galleries, reading books, trying to crack his way into the scene by living it.He looked the part and he acted the part. But the Bohemian Art scene is the perfect environment to pick up a pile of bad habits fatal to any chances of success. Drinking. Drugs. Sex. Artists are too cool for discipline and day jobs. training courses, or apprenticeship schemes — they already know everything, it comes out of their soul onto the canvas for Christ's sakes! This is evident from their outrageous clothes and behavior.And as the years go by the arrogance turns sour and becomes misanthropy, and the anxiety beds in and becomes depression. These two wrestle around with alcoholism and the Prince of Bohemia needs an escape route —Like many artists, he had a human crutch, the girl who adored him and kept him in reasonable shape, and tried to save him from too much excess. She's still doing it today and he’s very lucky for it. Though perhaps, by taking care of their money for a crucial decade and a bit, she gave him a way out of working on himself. He’s got a kid now and he's about to turn 40 and he’s delivery shopping in his town for money and working on his art. He hates it and he rightly feels he’s better than his current social position. The money is crap so he’s thinking of training to teach. He recognizes that the practical, unsexy, un-artistic realities of needing a dependable salary and a reasonable role in society to bring up your kids and keep your wife happy are important.They’re not the enemy of art. They’re the crutch he should have been making when he was younger.<h2 id="77ce">The Big Mistake</h2>He swallowed the pill whole — to follow your dream, to be led by your passion, to throw your whole identity into your art, and be someone.It would have been okay, maybe, if one of three conditions existed:<ul><li>he had a lot of money to see him through is life</li><li>he had made a breakaway success at a young age (incredibly u

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nlikely and incredibly dangerous to a young not very well constructed mind — see the 27 Club</li><li>he found a patron (someone who gives you lots of money for your art), in the old style, like James I was Shakespeare’s patron, or Gertrude Stein was Picasso’s patron. This could work nicely though the reality of artistic freedom within this relationship is arguable.</li></ul>But these conditions didn’t apply to him and they are almost certainly not going to apply to you.Gustave Flaubert, the author of Madame Bovary, said that you cannot lead a normal, middle-class type of life and be an artist. That type of ‘cross-breed’ as he called it, was impossible because ‘you get caught up in life’ so ‘you see it badly.’ An artist is ‘a monstrosity, something outside of nature.’ They shouldn’t seek to live a normal life and the idea of art on the side is not real art.Something like this thinking animated Daryl in his 20s and 30’s — to be successful you really had to believe, you had to dig deep against the rising evidence of impossibility and keep it as a matter of faith that you are an artist and time will vindicate your struggle.That’s unfortunately (or fortunately) not true, though. In the gallery this weekend. Daryl was drunk and depressed. His work was better than ever but the success of his opening night was the worst he’d ever had. His wife and kid had gone home after he had an argument with them over something. He was drinking heavily and occasionally talking about training as a teacher so he could stop driving his delivery van but mostly seeking the oblivion that is the only resting place for those beautiful, impossible dreams of pure art.Flaubert had the money in his family to never need to work. In the internet age, how much stress and trauma can be saved by working on a reasonable career plan alongside your dream/goal, and above all by working on yourself, your habits, your mindset, and your relationships? That’s what he’s trying to do now. That’s what we’re all trying to do now we’ve got some creeks in our bones and a visual of a world after us when our kids are keeping up the good fight.Daryl’s belief in his dream was a matter of faith and that was no mistake. He just wishes he’d have supported it more, with decent habits, a reliable salary, and a source of social self-respect.That’s not selling out. That’s playing the long game to win.</article></body>

#2 Lifestyle Mistake to Avoid in Your 20’s

Course-Correct with Extreme Urgency!

This weekend I saw something grim. My good friend Mark had an exhibition of his paintings in a gallery. They’re good. Very good. He’s been working away at them for 20 years. But the gallery was less of a gallery and more of plasterboard leaning against a wall in a shop in a grotty little town, the ‘gallery’ owner was expecting 50% of any sales and there weren’t going to be any because I and my 8 year old son were the only people there.

We’ve been born with this problem of exceptionalism in the West — we all believe we’re special and we have to ‘be someone.’ I wanted to be a rock star, my friend wants to be an artist, my other friend wanted to be a businessman — in that energy of youth that pushes us to try and make something vivid and awesome of ourselves we sometimes shoot for a too distant star, blast off with turbulence of arrogance and anxiety (that can alienate the people who care about us) and burn up before me make it out of orbit.

Daryl had his different dream — one coming straight out of pain. His parents split up when he was a teenager and he had to spend some crappy years living with a stepdad and stepbrother he hated. His Dad drifted away and didn’t look after himself. Daryl made a friend living close by whose parents let him stay at their house. He went there before his household woke up and arrived back after they went to bed. With this new friend he got into smoking marijuana and talking about art, music, philosophy, and the need to escape the prisons in middle-class suburbia.

He transformed. In the space of a year his sports-casual apparel was gone and flowers bloomed all over his clothes, cardigans replaced tracksuits, rasta hats covered the place where gel had once held his hair hard — he even changed his name.

He decided what he wanted to be and he became it. A bohemian artist. He was good at Art too and passed his A level with an A, then studied Art at Uni in London, an MA, and then a BA — and then he hit the wall that we all hit: the edge of the cliff of education over which we pour like lemmings…

I want to be a ahhhhhh —

Unlike his other friends though, he had the guts to throw himself into the scene — a London artist, living in a little flat without any money, having the occasional show, partying with artists, going to galleries, reading books, trying to crack his way into the scene by living it.

He looked the part and he acted the part. But the Bohemian Art scene is the perfect environment to pick up a pile of bad habits fatal to any chances of success. Drinking. Drugs. Sex. Artists are too cool for discipline and day jobs. training courses, or apprenticeship schemes — they already know everything, it comes out of their soul onto the canvas for Christ's sakes! This is evident from their outrageous clothes and behavior.

And as the years go by the arrogance turns sour and becomes misanthropy, and the anxiety beds in and becomes depression. These two wrestle around with alcoholism and the Prince of Bohemia needs an escape route —

Like many artists, he had a human crutch, the girl who adored him and kept him in reasonable shape, and tried to save him from too much excess. She's still doing it today and he’s very lucky for it. Though perhaps, by taking care of their money for a crucial decade and a bit, she gave him a way out of working on himself. He’s got a kid now and he's about to turn 40 and he’s delivery shopping in his town for money and working on his art. He hates it and he rightly feels he’s better than his current social position. The money is crap so he’s thinking of training to teach. He recognizes that the practical, unsexy, un-artistic realities of needing a dependable salary and a reasonable role in society to bring up your kids and keep your wife happy are important.

They’re not the enemy of art. They’re the crutch he should have been making when he was younger.

The Big Mistake

He swallowed the pill whole — to follow your dream, to be led by your passion, to throw your whole identity into your art, and be someone.

It would have been okay, maybe, if one of three conditions existed:

he had a lot of money to see him through is life
he had made a breakaway success at a young age (incredibly unlikely and incredibly dangerous to a young not very well constructed mind — see the 27 Club
he found a patron (someone who gives you lots of money for your art), in the old style, like James I was Shakespeare’s patron, or Gertrude Stein was Picasso’s patron. This could work nicely though the reality of artistic freedom within this relationship is arguable.

But these conditions didn’t apply to him and they are almost certainly not going to apply to you.

Gustave Flaubert, the author of Madame Bovary, said that you cannot lead a normal, middle-class type of life and be an artist. That type of ‘cross-breed’ as he called it, was impossible because ‘you get caught up in life’ so ‘you see it badly.’ An artist is ‘a monstrosity, something outside of nature.’ They shouldn’t seek to live a normal life and the idea of art on the side is not real art.

Something like this thinking animated Daryl in his 20s and 30’s — to be successful you really had to believe, you had to dig deep against the rising evidence of impossibility and keep it as a matter of faith that you are an artist and time will vindicate your struggle.

That’s unfortunately (or fortunately) not true, though. In the gallery this weekend. Daryl was drunk and depressed. His work was better than ever but the success of his opening night was the worst he’d ever had. His wife and kid had gone home after he had an argument with them over something. He was drinking heavily and occasionally talking about training as a teacher so he could stop driving his delivery van but mostly seeking the oblivion that is the only resting place for those beautiful, impossible dreams of pure art.

Flaubert had the money in his family to never need to work. In the internet age, how much stress and trauma can be saved by working on a reasonable career plan alongside your dream/goal, and above all by working on yourself, your habits, your mindset, and your relationships? That’s what he’s trying to do now. That’s what we’re all trying to do now we’ve got some creeks in our bones and a visual of a world after us when our kids are keeping up the good fight.

Daryl’s belief in his dream was a matter of faith and that was no mistake. He just wishes he’d have supported it more, with decent habits, a reliable salary, and a source of social self-respect.

That’s not selling out. That’s playing the long game to win.