artists — blog — RIO SAKAIRI

The truth is nobody owes you anything.

Nobody has to eat your food. Nobody has to wear your clothes. Nobody has to read your books. And nobody has to listen to your music. We are all doing what we are doing because we want to. It’s kinda important for us to really realize that, especially if we want to be eaten/read/listened/appreciated.

I sometimes read artists gripe about their lives in social media. I’m okay with casual venting in passing. I think we all do that and it’s nice to know that we are not alone in suffering some dumb human stuff; it’s comforting to know that the best of us struggle and that we have so much in common. It is, after all, not easy being artists for living.

What I find puzzling is when the posts are bitter and they are framed in ways that somehow everything bad/hard/out of control is everyone else’s fault: somehow the hardships are bestowed upon them without their consent and they are unjust. I’m like, really? I haven’t met any musicians whose arms were twisted to play jazz. It’s your choice. Nobody asked you to and nobody forced you to. You wanted to do it. So then you got to own the fact that you wanted it. Hardship and all. And you have to embrace it all. You can’t freely choose your own profession (being an artist at that!) and then complain when things do not go the way you want them to go. That is just counter productive.

It is a lonesome thing. To be an artist.

When you are an artist, you are truly alone. Or should I say, being an artist unquestionably brings on a realization that we all are alone. Whether we like it or not.

It is for each of us to know how we figure in the genre/community you work in and it is for us to know if what we are doing is any good. Nobody is going to tell you. Ever. And even if someone decides to give us an honest (whatever that means) opinion, it is just that. It’s an opinion. If that person is in a position of power and s/he has positive reaction to the work, it can mean something but it still doesn’t say anything about the goodness/badness/soulfulness/pointlessness/beauty/roughness of our craft. Not in an absolute way which all artists ache for. It is such a lonely place to be.

There was a period of time in my life when I used to frequent poetry slams at the Nuyorican and Bowery Poetry. I wanted someone to tell me if I was any good. My ego wanted praise and my insecurity craved approval. I fared alright. I won some nights and I got invited to invitation-only Friday slams. Some people came up to me to say how they loved my writing. All that didn’t give me the confirmation I was looking for because that’s the wrong place to look.

It is for me to know. If I’m writing piece of shit or if I’m any good. I have to decide. I had to get with myself. And that’s rough. That’s lonesome.

OWN IT

Lonely Wo/man

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