Artists Need Each Other

Posted on by sereichert

So yesterday I was invited to this really cool space in north Fort Collins, called Kestrel Fields Studio and Art Residency. The owner, Heather Matthews, is a delightful human who has created this space to help support not just artists in need of a space to work and focus their attention on their craft, but also as a gathering space for artists from all around. Last night, she invited a lively and varied crowd of Arts Administrators from the area to mingle, talk, and answer some important questions about what art means in our community, how we can work together, and what the future of art in our community could look like.

I won’t go into great detail but I did notice a few things that were brought up time and time again. First, that even in communities where the art scene (I’m covering it all; music, visual arts, performing arts, literary arts, etc) is vibrant, there is often a disconnect between artists sharing their work and the public being connected to it. We all know that funding for the arts has taken a hit under the current federal administration. When we couple that with an economy that’s currently circling the toilet bowl, private funds are also being withheld as the whole country braces for these depressive futures. In itself, this creates a depression and repression of a different kind. Creation of art is not free nor easy. It costs time, and material and effort.

Artists in America (with the exception of those billion dollar stars out there) are not paid well, if at all. Art is not considered worthy of compensation to a capitalist system. Why? Because it defies all the markers of capitalism. It is not meant to be consumed and thrown out in an never-ending wasteful cycle. It is not massed produced, or homogenized for easier consumption. Art is unique, and personal, and deep-rooted. It asks the observer to think and to feel, and to step outside of their own perceptions. Art is uncomfortable and often questions power. It is dangerous in all the right ways. Because people who think and ask you to question our societal confines are often discredited. After all, why would a system promote someone trying to shake us out of a stupor to acknowledge our humanity above powerful, greed-driven systems? Art does not serve systemic oppression.

The point is that art and artists in America are more often seen as quaint, quirky and starving, rather than being hard-working harbingers of change and progress. Unfortunately, the marker of respect in our society is tied with monetary compensation, and we do not give that to artists, no matter how they may improve our lives or move our souls. So…something to think about is how you interact, support, and uplift the artists in your community. First, by going to their shows, reading their books, reviewing them and spreading the word. Paying a cover designer when you can. Paying for someone who edits or writes copy for you. Paying a musician to preform at your event. That money goes directly back to the artists and therefor the community. And it speaks a louder truth that Art Is Worthwhile.

Along those lines, let’s talk about cross-support. A big issue that came up was the “siloing” (I feel like that’s a hot-topic word of late) of artists. Painters stay in gallaries, musicians only go to music festivals, writers stay home in their pajamas and turn their ringer off. Yes. It’s hard to step outside of our own comfort zones within our art. But the beautiful thing about art, in any sphere, is just what I mentioned above. Art makes you think. Makes you question. Gets you outside of your world and asks you to see something new. To question. To feel. And those questions and feelings, especially when planted in the seed of another artistic mind, will lead to a garden of beautiful, unique and expansive ideas. If you’re familiar with ekphrastic work, you know that a painting can inspire a poem. A poem can become a song lyric. A song can drive the hand of a painter. We are not siloed, we are an expansive field of fertile and ready soil. And at the risk of sounding sensual, we should start cross-pollinating. Not only for the health and vitality of our own art, but to support the minds and hearts of people who share in our struggle and joy of being translators of the soul into art.

I am proud of the community of writers and poets I work with. I am overjoyed to meet the artists who paint, and draw, and sing, and perform. I love to know how art and passion move through their bodies, and to feel kindred in their drive to create something that feels like touching the deep truths of humanity and shared experience. My ask of you today, whether you write or not, is to find out more about the artists in your community. Go to their shows, follow them on line, support them with words and presence if you don’t have the funds. But let them know they’re important. That they are seen. Because artists see you. They work and create to bring us all closer to understanding each other. And that’s something worth leaving my pajamas for.

When Heroes Fall

Posted on by sereichert

I’d been trying to think of something writer-like to put on the blog this week. I am, after all, a writer and my blog is about more than just book signings and the random outburst of poetry. It’s a space for aspiring and seasoned writers to not feel so damn alone. To know that we exist in a universe together, with other, weird little writers. We inspire and uplift each other. Sometimes we are cautionary tales, or serve as examples good and bad to one another. We critique and offer hands up, teach and learn, all together, knowing that the heart of an artist is surrounded in a soul more sensitive than most.

We see the world differently. We hear it and smell it, and absorb it. We make connections and notice the little things that many don’t. Its often why we suffer so much more greatly. But this week. This week I watched and read as whispers of misconduct became horrible, horrific truths. About someone I used to admire very deeply. Someone I thought understood and abhorred causing unnecessary suffering. I read his books. I read my children his books. I bought his graphic novels, I enjoyed his writing advice. He was incredible and creating characters and monsters.

Then the truth came out that he was one. A true-to-life monster.

For years, and in very dark and disgusting ways, he committed monstrosities. Ways that I cannot as a feminist, as a human, as an artist, or as a soul made of stardust, reconcile with. It took every one of his books off my shelf, and put it in the recycling bin.

But you can hate the artist but love the art, right? All of those terrible acts don’t negate that he’s a good writer… Here’s where I brush aside that morally gray line.

NO. I can’t love the art of someone who’s soul is so rotten and sick that he’d do that to another person.. Yes, those terrible things DO negate that he’s a good writer. Because the brain that created those words, also created and excised pain and terror on actual human beings.

Here’s the bottom line. I’m fed up with a world offering excuses to people who behave this way. Weighing a ledger between talent and atrocity. Where its ‘kinda okay’ because I don’t want to give up my special editions? No. It matters. It matters who we support and what we allow, and I’m done allowing it.

I took his books off my shelf, for those girls and women. For my daughters, for anyone who’s ever fallen victim to a hero, and every hero who’s ever taken advantage. That’s not heroism.

He’s not allowed in my house anymore. I’ll never willingly read his words again or buy any more of his books. I hope he turns the monstrosities and horrors he put out into the world, back in on himself where they belong.

When Art Becomes A Business

Posted on by sereichert

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. And I’m not sure if its an American Capitalism (should be capitalized right?) thing, or a global disease but…at what point did we stop valuing art and creation if it wasn’t…profitable?

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I’m an anthropologist at heart. It started when I couldn’t put down the Clan of the Cave Bear series at 12 and continued on through college and my degree, and until…well, yesterday when I read a really cool article about a new Neanderthal skeleton that was recently reconstructed…why does it matter?… well…”Anthropology encourages us to extend our perspectives beyond familiar social contexts to view things from the perspectives of others”. Where was I? Oh yes…art. Humans and art. Do you know how long we’ve been creating art? Paintings on walls, carvings from stone, beadwork, intricate clothing, papyrus, plays (both tragic and humorous…), STORYTELLING…

Photo by toshihiko tanaka on Pexels.com

The point is, humans were born with divine mental capacity. And it extends in times of plenty and scarcity to provide sustenance in a form of mental fulfillment. Then…I dunno…hustle culture happened? Capitalism happened? 1970’s parents started scoffing over martinis that so-and-so’s son wanted to be an *gasp* artist…and what a dreadful shame? That someone would chose to create new and innovative and truthful things over…stamping letters and creating spreadsheets? Because…well…art has no… no money in it.

These birthing pains gave way to an entire generation of people who were forced to work at acceptable jobs and “dabble” in art. Which gave way to people “hustling” in their art and marketing the shit out of their soul’s best guess of humanity, to make it ‘real’ by turning a dollar sign. This is where we are. Art has been reduced to…a commodity. And if it doesn’t sell…it isn’t worthwhile…

There are countries that don’t charge artists taxes. Did you know that? That if they’re producing art (writing, painting, illustration, music, etc.) they are exempt from the toil of paying their country extra money. Why? In America that would never fly! Why should they be off the hook

Let me ask you…What do you do in your free time?

You don’t work more. You don’t put out more spreadsheets, or call more clients, or cut more hair, or take an extra shift for fun…you read. You…go to museums…you watch plays…you visit the botanical gardens… you go to a movie. These little “acts of joy” sometimes even keep you from jumping off a bridge. They inspire your mind, they take you out of the daily grind and…hustle.

…is that not of value? Does feeding your soul not count as a necessity?

I’m on a soap box, I get it. You’ve probably stopped reading. But in case you haven’t, please consider

…humanity has survived and thrived because we have had more than just survival to aim for. There is joy and purpose to feast off of. Art makes life. In the event of an apocalypse… could you even imagine not trying to save the art, the books, the music… the decadent history (and prehistory) of the humanistic howls into the universe that scream… “we are here and we feel”?

What is there to appreciate beyond it? Art brings us together, it connects us, it’s a shared experience and a deeper rooted truth than almost any paycheck. And yet…it has been reduced to: how many followers, how much in royalties, how many people ‘liked’ it, how many people went to your show, what the script writer made and if they have potential for more (we don’t pay if you don’t have at least three seasons)…

I beg of you, if you have funds in the strapped and dystopian financial climate that is America now… support your artists. They don’t even have to be me. Just…find something that you love, that moves you and…tell the artist, write them, speak to them, throw some money their way. Remind them…They are important. They are the story up on the wall of a cave…that proves a defiant resistance to the endless march of time. The voice in the dark, the color in the black and white that speaks; we are here.

We were here.

Art matters. And the only people telling you it doesn’t, are the people that cannot profit from it.

The Tumultuous Writer’s Mind

Posted on by sereichert

I’ve struggled with a post this week. Either to launch into some deft and cuttingly beautiful poetry, or as Melanie Griffith once said in “Working Girl” to hit you with my smarts. I don’t have a lot of poetry or smarts today. Sorry.

Life has been chocked full of events. Some of them are little, and benign. Some of them seem like…not a big deal, but they rift something deep within the surface and you end up spending the week dealing with the ripples that have become tsunamis. Part drowning, part relishing the destruction of old temples and ideals that held you for far too long in subjecation. In any case…you start to question, where you’re at. What you’re doing? Are you living well? Are you loving well? Are you taking all the advantage of this one wild life? Or are you… stagnant? Have you slept too long in comfort and stopped fighting for something…far greater? Have you given up truth and freedom for discomfort for blissful ignorance?

And why not? Out of fear? Out of habit? Out of…this is how it’s always been and why should I wish more for myself?

It’s hard. As humans. As writers. To trust our own individual worth. Our creativity. What we offer the world. Why does it even matter in dark and vast sea of a million different voices?

Especially when cookie cutter, and formulamatic fiction seems to be the thing that draws in the most eyes… Well…shit I don’t know. There’s very little money in truth. There’s very little fame or fortune in telling the general masses something interesting and thought provoking and…god help us…challenging to their idiom. Please, as the Briar Rabbit once cried, don’t throw me into the thorn bush…Please don’t make me…think…

Is there room for the artist in this world? Is there room for the intellectual? The person disconnected from the constant spin and pizzaz of what constitutes journalism and entertainment (trick question, there’s no difference between the two now) these days. Is there room in the world for the person who chooses to turn of their screens and the voices and the barrage of constant, dumbing down information to sit still…and think… and write? About an original idea, about the absolute absurdity of life? To write something that makes us think? When was the last time you read such a thing? Such a strange soul-stirring thing? When was the last time you sat in silence, and contemplated the idea that in your not-so-distant-past, your brain kept you alive in a world full of real dangers and still managed to tell a decent story. That you were designed…for far better things. Not monetary, not status related. But…soul worth…When did you last wonder if all of this noisy bullshit was beneath you? Because I’m pretty sure it is.

I am weary of this world. It holds so little that matters. It has become so much neon pink and drowning narcissism.

I don’t have a blog for you.

I’m too busy thinking. On my own. Observing, with eyes, not videos. Listening to all perspectives, shouting to be heard… And even if I had something worthwhile to tell you, about you, your existence, about the white washed reality you’ve been fed, all the anxieties they’ve readily given you to keep you engaged on numbing little pills, I’m not sure anybody is ready to listen.

Roller Coast

Posted on by sereichert

Writers, man.

We live deliciously. And when I say that, I mean that we often tend towards the magnificence of highs and lows. I’ve always been more partial to the belief that artists, musicians, writers, poets and the like tend to live life on the shorter wave-length side of things.

Imagine life as a string. We all get the same length of string. Pin it down to one side of the desk. Now, give it a nice, soft undulation of a small lake and see where it lands. That’s a good example of a typical life.

Take another string, same length, same starting point, and make those undulations like the waves of the ocean, impressive highs and catastrophic lows.  The ocean string runs out far before the lake string. This is the life of a creative.

Does that mean we die sooner? Not necessarily. In some extreme cases (think Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison or Jimi Hendrix) death was aided in his cause by the use of drugs or alcohol. But it begs the question, why do such creative geniuses seem to expire sooner?

I have an unsupported theory that living in a creative mind isn’t easy. Often, it’s a discombobulated place, filled with wild fantasy, grim darkness, and a dash of bipolar tendencies. The fantastical neurons are on overdrive and move in spiraling thought storms that are often uncontrollable or at best frustratingly elusive.

That’s not an easy brain to live in.

We may scoff at Hemingway’s whiskey or Stephen King’s cocaine but it’s hard to make quick judgments when we’ve all had to deal with voices in our heads, characters doing whatever-the-damn-well-they-want, plot failures and to top it off, the cycles of elation and rejection that line this path we’ve chosen (willingly or not).

Writing can be hard on the heart.

We get diagnosed with depression, anxiety, panic attacks, emotional disorders or other mental health issues. And I’m prone to believe that part of that comes from a society and educational system that values the boxed in test score measures than the immeasurable brain power involved in creative and critical thinking.

When we’re standing at the precipice of throwing our work into the world, firing out the query letters, calling editors and agents, pitching novels, or even entering contests, the mountains of hope and valleys of despair can be wretched chemical surges that amplify the already swirling thunderstorms in the creative mind.

No wonder we are driven to seek out the numbing magic of fermented fruit or dried poppy milk. We’re seeking to elongate the valleys and peaks.

Unfortunately for the human body, those distractions are just that…distractions. Bandaids over too deep a wound.

My point is this, writer, creator, artist with vividly full skull… you are a colorful, magical, beautiful soul, who’s gift comes at the cost of a little sanity. You will see things and know things the world at large is not ready to see or know.

They may call you a dreamer.

But you’re not the only one.

Surround yourself with people who get it. Who know when you need to pontificate in unruly and unrelated thought strings out loud once in awhile, and who understand when you want to stay quietly tucked into a corner avoiding eye contact. You know… other vividly full skulls.

Find your weirdos and keep each other on the gentle undulation side of things, so that when your mind and talent have created in the frothing whirlwind, you can bring your ideas, books, poems, articles, and novels, to the world while standing on solid ground.

When you are in the fire of creating, let it burn.

Then cull your flames with rest, and good food, and time away so that you have the fuel to burn for a long, long, long time to come.