Why I Refuse to Defend My Work—A Lesson From Seal on Artistry

The lasting beauty of creation is in its individual resonance

An Incorrect Interpretation?

Three times in the last few months I’ve caught myself getting defensive over how someone interpreted one of my articles.

Though I’m generally a non-confrontational person, I’ve even sounded off about how they got it wrong, or at least inwardly stewed over how they “didn’t get it.”

Until one day, when I was complaining about this to my adult daughter (“That’s not at all what that piece was about!”), and she wisely replied, “Mom, she commented on your piece. That’s all you want. So what if she gets something else out of it than you expected?”

Of course, she was right. Who am I to decide how others interpret my work? How would I like it if someone did this to me — telling me that my thoughts on their work were somehow not allowed? I’d be livid, and I’d probably never read their work or listen to their music again.

Interpretation should remain the prerogative of the reader, the viewer, the receiver. Whatever they take from it is exactly what they’re meant to take from it.

This is why Seal never included printed lyrics for his music. From Songfacts:

“Seal bucked convention by not including printed lyrics with the album, something he did because he didn’t want to wash away anyone’s interpretation. He also says that his songs often mean more than one thing, so attributing a meaning would be too simplistic. In lieu of lyrics, Seal wrote a screed on the subject that went with the album. “I think it’s the general vibe of what I’m saying that is important and not the exact literal translation,” he wrote. “The song is always larger in the listener’s mind because with it they attach imagery which is relative to their own personal experience. So it is your perception of what I’m saying rather than what I actually say that is the key.”

I’m sure that when Seal gave this interview, he was not thinking that someday a writer like me would come along and interpret his words for a purpose such as this article. But it’s a pretty good guess that he would neither correct nor commend me.

Artist Attachment

Did you ever get really attached to a song growing up, one that meant a lot to you, spoke directly to you, or carried you through a difficult time — only to discover later in life that you were singing the wrong lyrics?

Or, do you have a favorite painting that told a specific story to you, only to come across an interview with the artist where you discovered it meant something else?

It breaks our connection to the work. It undermines the value it gave us. No artist wants that to happen.

Besides, what does it matter if we heard something different than what the artist wrote down? So what if it meant one thing to us, but the artist intended it differently? It touched us, maybe even changed us, and that’s the higher intention of art.

We each come to a piece of art with our personal background, conditioning, and experiences in tow — it would be impossible for all of us to get the same thing out of it.

As a writer, I get deeply attached to my work. I don’t think this is unusual or surprising. Artists of all stripes probably feel this way. A friend reminded me the other day that this is because my writing comes from my soul, and so my work is a reflection of my soul. It’s a different process than just following directions to put together an Ikea table, for sure.

I doubt that it’s my soul, however, that’s getting defensive about the so-called “wrong” interpretations. It’s my ego that’s sounding off, which I have now appropriately checked.

Art is a product of our right brain—the part of our brain that works non-linearly. It’s visual, sensory, imaginative. It is non-conforming and unstructured.

It stands to reason (left brain) that art will be enjoyed and processed by our right brain, so we get visuals, perhaps even scents, sounds, and tastes that go along with what we’re reading or listening to.

Our intention as artists must not be focused on making sure people “get” our work, but that they “feel” our work. If someone is taking the time to comment, then they felt something. Maybe the next time they read it, they'll feel something else entirely. This is why books are often better the second time around, and why we watch movies over and over and peel back layers each time.

For example, I recently rewatched “Jaws,” and all I could think about was how the whole movie is one giant metaphor for a global pandemic:

Vaughn: Look, we depend on the summer people here for our very lives. Hooper: You are not going to have a summer unless you deal with this problem. Vaughn: And if you close those beaches, we’re finished. Brody: We’re not only gonna have to close the beach, we’re gonna have to hire somebody to kill the shark…

I doubt the writers of “Jaws” created the movie as a metaphor for a global pandemic and the inevitable arguments between public safety and keeping businesses afloat. But why does it matter? That’s how it resonated for me this particular time.

Keeping the Mystery in Art

Great art transcends time and place. It meets people where they are, whenever they are. It creates a spark of an idea, a microdose of healing, a strand of understanding.

Great art is both metaphor and symbol and as such it can shapeshift and morph before the eyes of the viewer. Like that viral online argument about the color of a dress—what’s white and gold to one person is blue and black to another.

This is why it is so difficult to “rate” art (and a good argument as to why we shouldn’t) — because what is one person’s Picasso is another person’s midnight scribblings.

When you read great artists such as Hermann Hesse or Tori Morrison—the work has transcended the artist. It is an energy unto itself. It’s not words on a page; it’s an energy that transforms and transports.

Our work can be that powerful, too. Yes, it was once our baby and needed careful tending and nurturing. But once it’s out in the world, it no longer needs or would benefit from the micromanagement of an overprotective parent. Neither does it need us to defend it.

The work we birth is ultimately stronger and more durable than we are, just like the daughter I birthed is wiser than I am.

Let the Work Outlive Us

I want my work to stay alive long after I’m gone—not just “live” as in it exists, but “live” as in it carries the energy of transformation wherever it lands.

I hope people discover my books in a Little Free Library and glean inspiration or wisdom I never intended.

I hope they stay in a place of wonder about my intentions, as Jay Toran did here in his review of my book, “Embodying Soul,” rather than stumbling across some egoic, defensive stance of mine that locked meaning in as this-not-that until the end of time.

I believe I am wise enough to learn from the great artists who have paved the way. Like Seal’s “Kiss From a Rose,” I want to create work that holds an air of mystery. Pieces that leave room for Spirit to enter. Pieces that each person can read and find meaning any way they wish.

Pieces that I won’t jump in and defend.