Portrait of an artist

I used to think that the idea of a tortured artist, writhing in a stinking mess of their own emotions, was a Romantic ideal. It served to idealise the profession, when a true artist is dedicated and disciplined and armed with intelligence. In the same breath I often wondered what makes art Art. What is it that makes so much contemporary art seem lifeless, intellectual? It stirs the emotions, sure, but often just because it is controversial.

Being a writer is hard. Writing a novel is hard. Every time I start a sentence I have to fight a monster who tells me this isn't good enough, I cannot do this. Every time I read something I have written, I have to agree with the monster. Yet something in me believes I can do this, so I persevere.

I wade through human emotions, picking the ones that are just right for what I want to say. Sometimes they're pretty little darlings, but usually they are distorted aborted things. Each emotion goes together with a set of gestures and facial expressions, personality traits and a personal history. It's difficult not to take these things on as your own, and sometimes they creep into the cracks and layer your everyday.

And usually, they are part of your everyday anyway. You recognise emotions because you have felt them; you assign gestures and expressions because you have used them.

At some point, someone isn't going to approve. Their criticism is going to be hidden in their words and gestures and facial expressions, and you know where they hide so you will see them. Every compliment contains a criticism, a something you are not.

But doesn't this hyper-self-awareness, this emotional sensitivity, make one's art better? Isn't THIS what art is? Something that shows you the best and the worst of people, and casts a spell around it so that you can't look away? Not something that horrifies you so much that you have to? Art is pain and suffering. It is also dedication and discipline. Art is venturing out into the depths of human experience and coming back with a spiny prize in your cupped palms.