Why Do We Make Art?

For all the unknowns out there.

“The philosophers themselves, in those books which they write in contempt of glory, inscribe their names.” — Cicero

Beware of guys like me.

There’s a hole in the human heart. In fact, there are many. If there weren’t, our hearts would be obdurate stones, useless for their primary purpose of pushing blood around. But of course, you already know that that’s not the kind of heart I’m talking about, don’t you? I’m talking about the metaphysical heart, not the physical one. I’m talking not about how we are alive, but why.

I’m talking about the hole in the heart that people try to fill with fame. With adulation and respect from strangers. We know it doesn’t work. History swarms with celebrated suicides who achieved everything and discovered it wasn’t enough.

Today, I read this article by Gabrieknowseverything. In it, he examines the dilemma that I confront just about every day. Every time I pick up my pen or flip open my laptop, I’m forced to either confront or ignore the same question: why do I bother?

I earn enough from writing to live a comfortable life. That fact by itself makes me more successful than most writers out there. But you don’t need to do too deep a dive into my online profiles to see that the writing which is closest to my heart doesn’t make much money. When it comes to the writing I love best, I’m a virtual nonentity.

Everyone has heard Andy Warhol’s famous quote, that in the future, everybody will be famous for 15 minutes. Not as many people have heard his follow-up:

“I’m bored with that line. I never use it anymore. My new line is, “In fifteen minutes everybody will be famous.”

But now when I look at Instagram and TikTok and YouTube and Facebook, I see how prescient Warhol’s line was. In my father’s generation, people grew up wanting to be astronauts or firefighters or soldiers. When I was a kid, everyone wanted to be a footballer or an actress or singer. Now, kids want to be famous. They want to be influencers. And it doesn’t much seem to matter how they do it.

But this is why you need to beware of guys like me. Because I’m saying all this in a public forum, in the hope that you’ll read it. And like it. And share it. I’m playing the game too. Because this is late stage capitalism, baby, and it’s all in the game. It’s easy to sneer at the seemingly ever-growing desire for fame. But I’m chasing the same carrot.

Why we create art

As Gabe points out in his article, every flavor of religion in human history has harnessed the power of art as part of its worship. There’s something sacred in the act of creation, going all the way back to the first cave paintings our ancestors scrawled on the walls to make the bison run.

There is no shortage of evolutionary explanations for art, but that does nothing to dampen the wonder. At its best, art is an act of sacred communion with the divine, reaching out from a flawed human creature to the infinite beauty of the universe. And when it’s at its best, a great artist can take us all along on that magical ride.

So many of our impulses are self-serving and impure. But this one is the opposite of that. When I find something beautiful, I can’t wait to share it, even with you strangers out there. I want you to see what I see, to feel what I feel, for no other reason than its ravishing loveliness.

But artists need to eat too. And the commodification of art isn’t anything new. Our cave painting ancestors lived in small interrelated groups and probably had no concept of fame. But by the time we began building cities, people were already trying to get famous. Not always for the right reasons.

Herostratus burned down the Temple of Artemis in the 4th century BC, hoping to become famous for it. And look how well it worked. Two thousand four hundred years later, I’m writing about him, despite the authorities trying to wipe his name from the history books. He was tortured and executed for his crime, as he must’ve known he would be. But he’s still famous.

The impulse to create art and the desire for that art to be celebrated seem to be two different things. There’s a reason why, except for a ludicrously small subset of people, writing will never be a path to riches. Too many people are willing to do it for free. Like me. Locked in a dungeon, I’d scratch words on the wall just to pass the time, always searching for that mysterious experience that takes over a person when they are in the full flow of creativity.

These kinds of aesthetic raptures don’t require an audience. They happen behind a desk, in front of the screen, when I’m alone with words that, for all I know, no one will never read.

As far as life-sustaining ecstasies go, I recommend it to anyone. Because unlike most joys in life, this one doesn’t depend on anyone else. It’s just you and your pen, or brush, or whatever you use to push back the curtain on the universe. No one can take that away.

But there is, I’ve learned, a sure-fire way to lose that joy. Subjecting your art to the whims of the market, seeing your voice go unheard in the multitude of creative people all yelling at once, breaks more hearts than alcohol. Some people, many people, never get over that loss.

Not the loss of the fame that they never had, but the loss of the joy of creation that can come when it begins to seem futile. When it seems that you’ll never achieve any kind of connection through your art. Because if art wasn’t meant to be shared, we’d never paint the walls of the caves at all.

“I liked cro-magnon cave paintings before they were cool.”

It’s a false dichotomy that popular art can’t be good. Bob Dylan has sold millions of records over one of the most successful careers in music history, and I’ll fight anyone who says he’s not one of the greatest songwriters of all time. But it’s instructive to remember that Bob Dylan just got his first-ever Billboard number one at the age of 78. That’s fewer than Akon.

If you write the most beautiful poem in human history and no one ever reads it, what was the point? Sure, you might enjoy the process. You might have the most ecstatic raptures in your lonely room, barely able to understand where the words are coming from as they pour already perfectly formed from your flying pen.

Those are the nights when you remember why you do this, why you create your art for a seemingly indifferent world. Because the act of creation makes you happy, and more than that. It makes you whole. For a radiant moment, those gaps and cracks in your heart are filled with light. The vibration of bliss in your overflowing chest seems to match the vibration of the world. It’s more beautiful than words can express.

But that’s never enough. You’ll want to share that transcendent experience with others. And in our capitalist society, that means you need to sell, if not sellout.

So what’s the answer?

“Let apes and children praise your art/ If their admiration’s to your taste” — Goethe

How does an artist keep their heart alive while trying to make a living? If I ever figure that out, I’ll be sure to let you know.

But I do think it has something to do with the ego. Specifically, the part of yourself that longs for praise and encouragement. The childish part that yearns for approval, a part that even the most successful people still have — in fact, successful artists are often the most egotistical people of all.

And as a result, they are often the most deeply insecure.

When your sense of self-esteem is tied to stats and sales and recognition, you’re handing your heart over to a merciless algorithm. You’re setting yourself up for unhappiness. No matter how big that number gets, it will never be enough.

Have you heard the one about the two wolves? It’s an old Native American story about the battle that goes on in the human heart. One wolf represents all the negative things that lie within us. Rage and jealousy and desire and insecurity.

The other represents the good. Kindness and generosity and truthfulness, to ourselves as well as to others. Which one will win, the young boy asks his wise old grandfather. Whichever one you feed more, the old man replies.

In terms of fame, I barely exist. But I’ve had an article or two go viral in my time. Enough to know firsthand that 10,000 likes won’t make you whole. It won’t soothe the ego. In fact, human desires being what they are, it will only feed it.

When you next article only gets 9000, you’ll wonder what went wrong. You’ll start to doubt yourself more than you ever did when you were getting ten or fifteen responses. You’ll fall into the trap that has killed more artists than heroin.

So create.

Chase that bright light. Experience the rapture that comes from birthing something new and beautiful into the world. Please yourself first. Because the minute you start writing for the stats, you’ll lose everything that made your writing worthwhile in the first place. You’ll become a hollow shell that may make a pleasing sound when struck, but will remain forever empty.

We create art to experience bliss, and to connect with others. But one doesn’t invalidate the other. If a nightingale sings in a meadow at dusk and nobody retweets it, it doesn’t diminish the beauty of the song at all.

The world doesn’t need any more celebrities, but it will always need more beauty. More people who are true to themselves and their own inner fire. More people whose eyes shine with the light that only comes from the act of creation.

That’s why I do this.