a major point of character development in Michael Powell’s legendary Peeping Tom comes when protagonist Michael takes his downstairs neighbor Helen out for a date. Helen, a bit bemused, asks whether Michael plans to take his camera with them. up until this point Michael is always seen with a camera or film equipment, either his own or on set. the question comes as a surprise, and the audience feels Michael’s hesitation. “I’m worried it’s starting to grow into an extra limb!” Helen jokes. to drive home just how compulsive Michael’s photographing is, while walking home from dinner, the couple happen upon another couple necking in the park. Michael, out of habit, reaches for the camera that he agreed to leave back at the house, a chance to film an unguarded moment of humanity, and anxiety, that he’s unprepared for the opportunity, shades across his face.
though Michael has a traumatic story that explains his pathology—to say nothing of the violence that he enacts—this behavior is exactly the behavior required of any serious artist. for all the bromides about art being a way to deepen empathy, a way to shed light on the questions that unite humanity, a way to provide warmth in the cold desert of the world, the creation of art is, necessarily, profoundly antisocial. the artist always sees the world as raw material to be extracted; this is a subject that Nietzsche returns to several times in The Gay Science. hardly an original analogy, I know, but the artist is a vampire, drawing energy from the world, from real people, for a shot at creating something that transcends human limitations.
As soon as you think about giving yourself permission, you’re thinking about it from an egocentric point of view. In a way, it starts earlier than that, which is that, I’m in service of this art form—do or die. Whether I get a job or I don’t get a job….If teaching acting at a high school in Seattle when you’re 62, if that doesn’t sound great, then get out. Get the fuck out….If you don’t think it’s worth it to do that, then what is it that you’re doing? You don’t get to decide whether or not you’re good or whether she’s good or he’s good or who’s the best. You get to decide whether or not you think art has value, and then you just put yourself at it….You gotta think like a player who wants the ball….If you worry too much about not catching it or not doing a good job, then you don’t want the ball. It’s too much fear in the room. It’s okay if you drop the ball. It’s worth it that people play, right? And so if you get yourself in that mindset, then, you know, there’s nothing to really worry about.
Ethan Hawke
in an interview I’m too lazy to look for and transcribe like I did with Ethan Hawke, Quentin Tarantino reflects on how it was both an edge and a hinderance that he managed to find himself a comfortable situation close enough to filmmaking by working at a video store for five years. it was easy for him to feel like he was working hard at something because no one around him was working on anything similar at all. “a big fish in a puddle,” is how he put it. it wasn’t until he pushed himself to leave the video store and surround himself with filmmakers who were working at a much higher level than he was that he found the motivation to push himself to the next level, rather than continue to stagnate from a vantage point that allowed him to feel superior only because he didn’t have competition.
his account reminded me of my own situation. working in a library. most of the people I interact with aren’t engaged in very serious artistic endeavors. many of those people tell me I’m a good writer. no one ever gives me criticism that would help me improve. I’m fond of saying that my biggest fear isn’t that I’ll be told I’m a bad artist, but that my mediocrity will be enabled. and nothing in my life spurs me to take the steps necessary to really, seriously, figure out how to be a better artist. Tarantino compares it to running: you might be able to beat all your friends in a race if they only run for fun. but if you start training with serious athletes, yeah you might not beat anyone, but your time will improve.
what Tarantino said rhymes with something noted runner Don DeLillo said:
”Somebody quoted Norman Mailer as saying that he wasn’t a better writer because his contemporaries weren’t better. I don’t know whether he really said that or not, but the point I want to make is that no one in Pynchon’s generation can make that statement. If we’re not as good as we should be it’s not because there isn’t a standard. And I think Pynchon, more than any other writer, has set the standard. He’s raised the stakes.”
of course, this all sounds like a readymade excuse for floundering, for failing to live up to my own potential. I don’t want to make an excuse for my own laziness, because that’s what it is: laziness, vanity, and fear. a lethal brew for any artist to drink. see the last piece of this montage for that particular problem. but I think it’s worth noting nonetheless.
should I make anything of the fact that lately my posts here have been primarily about movies? that the advice I shared above, the ideas I drew about the artistic process, come from the world of cinema? when I was a teenager, I didn’t have a burning desire to write. but what I did dream of doing was directing films. I’m a talented photographer, though I haven’t done much of that recently. when I have free time, I almost always want to watch a movie. a frequent self-criticism I have of my writing is that narratively it’s too much like TV: scene setting, character introduction, dialogue. I put it down her book because the content became too unbearable to slog through, but on the level of form, Honor Levy can construct a much more interesting story than I usually do. which can mean one of two things: work harder, try different things, develop skills I feel myself lacking. or else switch media to something more in tune with my natural creative proclivities.
dunno.
Hard work beats talent
“Sleep When U Die” 2 Chainz
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