Why Make Art When The World Feels Bad?

Listen: because you must.

Last month a guy friend reached out to me to ask a thoughtful, honest question: “I’m sure like a lot of people, I’m struggling with the state of the world. What are your thoughts on making art that isn’t resistance or protest art? I feel like I want to make things, but my voice would just be noise. How do I not ignore things, but also not be a phony? Are there any articles or advice on this? Should I just shut up for now? Stop making music, poetry, photography? I’m looking for a little existential guidance if you have any to give.”

I struggle with this, too, because I can feel guilt around not being a “politically engaged” writer — my themes are sexuality, desire, feminism, the body, relationships. Some would say that’s political in itself. Others might say that’s escapism (or burying your head in the sand).

My first thought, and response to him, was what Anaïs Nin wrote:

“Why one writes is a question I can answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me — the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art. The artist is the only one who knows the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements. It is a materialization, an incarnation of his inner world. Then he hopes to attract others into it, he hopes to impose this particular vision and share it with others. When the second stage is not reached, the brave artist continues nevertheless. The few moments of communion with the world are worth the pain, for it is a world for others, an inheritance for others, a gift to others, in the end. When you make a world tolerable for yourself, you make a world tolerable for others.

―Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5: 1947-1955

Next, I thought of this Toni Morrison quotation from a 1977 interview:

And finally, without leaning on the writers who came before me, I wanted to say this — to him, to you:

Your question is so relatable: how do we make art in light of terrible political and ecological and worldwide disasters?

You do it because you must. You are already the artist you wish to be, and as that artist, you must make your art, pursue your passion. Joseph Campbell's main argument is: "follow your bliss." Tending to our own souls is so important, especially as parents, as community members — if making art helps you to feel good in your soul, because you've found your soul's purpose, your passion, creating art will make you a better person, parent, and friend, uplifting everyone in your orbit.

You do it because you feel better when you do it, your art, regularly. I understand the long breaks and the self-criticism, I really do. I’m like this, too. But then I get depressed and angry and I wonder why I’m feeling so depressed and angry. Oh! It’s because I haven’t been making any art. I accidentally put my passion on the shelf. But you have to bring it into bed with you, into your days, too. You have to dedicate yourself to it, with whatever amount of time you can grab from daily life and offer up to the muses instead.

I know plenty of talented people. They could write a poem, or a book, if they wanted. They could make a great song or film, a great piece of mixed media art. They know they could. Maybe they’ve even done it in the past! But then the years go by and they sort of forget how to do it. Or how they used to do it. It feels strange to start over from scratch, and they aren’t that young anymore, and their art never made any money. The older we get, the harder it can be to put our energy toward things that aren’t financially rewarding. What’s the point? And then the poem won’t come. The drawing isn’t turning out how they imagined.

Which is why you can’t stop. You can take little breaks, sure. But you cannot stop. You might forget how to write a poem in the first place. How to see with a different eye. How to hear the secret voice inside that guides your hand, your words, the next idea typed into your Notes app. The whole dang vision.

Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, in Letters to a Young Poet, “If the Angel deigns to come, it will be because you have convinced her, not by your tears, but by your humble resolve to be always beginning: to be a beginner.”

It’s very scary to begin. I know this because I’m trying to learn French. It’s embarrassing to be bad. It’s painful to realize you’ve forgotten how to do things that, in childhood, seemed so easy and fun: handstands, for example. Cartwheels. Writing short stories for the hell of it. Making up a dance, writing a song. Painting.

But you keep beginning. Art is a practice. Each time you show up, you are starting again, for the first time. And in your wake are the artists who taught you, touched you, the voices of your ancestors, the voices and visions that seem to come from somewhere beyond the self. That’s the magic, the mysterious wisdom.

(A male professor in my MFA program said to me once, “your poems are smarter than you are.” It took me decades to realize what he said may be true, and it’s not necessarily a bad thing.)

I admire every adult who keeps making their art, even when there are no accolades, even when there is no success. And of course when there is success, too.

They are doing it to survive. To keep from forgetting. To stave off the darkness. Maybe to laugh, to play a little. They are the bravest people in the world, adults who make their art, in spite of all the possible failures, in spite of all the other ways they could spend their time or make their money. That’s courage.

It is so tender, so open-hearted, to say “I made this” and share your art with us. We need to see, with our own eyes, each small beauty that you make. We are made whole by a series of words arranged on a page. We cry when certain human voices sing a certain phrase in a song.

It’s how we say we are here.

So, look, if this is how you say I am here, then you absolutely cannot stop saying it. Because you are an artist. Because to disappear is not an option.

---

---

The Poetry Community in Paris

On Saturday, April 26th in Paris I joined four fellow poets—Lénaïg Cariou, Malik Ameer Crumpler, Alison Grace Koehler, and Jason Stoneking—on a panel at Rerenga Wines. We were gathered together and led in our discussion, by our friend, writer, and community leader Carrie Chappell, who is the founder of Verse of April. For ten years, Carrie has published Verse of April every April (except for the first pandemic year, when she was also pregnant). The last five years of the project have focused on the “Hymn for the Living Poet,” where poets honor, in any form, a living poet who has inspired them. I’ve been published on the site, writing an homage to my professor and friend Laura Mullen, and I’ve been honored in homage by my student and friend, Andrew Ketcham.

Carrie and Kristin

Saturday’s event meant that a group of about fifteen of us poets and artists spent a few hours together discussing the world of poetry, and the ways we lift up each other in homage or in any form of support, really, in this painfully difficult and still-beautiful world. Which is: we read each others’ books and post about them, we attend each others’ readings and performances and film screenings, we teach other’s work in our classes, blurb each others’ books and visit each others’ classrooms, we collaborate on multidisciplinary projects, we care. Making art can feel lonely, especially when you’re not receiving praise or confirmation. But this is why we have community.

In Paris, we’re very lucky in our community.

A few of us in the community Carrie has made

Now, go make your art. ❤️

From a recent text conversation I had with Megan Burns, poet, publisher, and New Orleans community leader

---