Is There Art Without Misery?
Mindfulness is the new sh*t. That might sound deprecative, but it is the latest most desired thing in this polluted digital era. So much so, that even I started to look inwards, meditate, do yoga. It does help to a certain degree. Listening to Sam Harris talking about this I started to ask myself: is a mindful artist an artist at all?
What I mean is: The most heartbreaking songs, paintings, stories, poems, novels, ballets, every piece of art I have witnessed had a smaller or bigger misery component in it. Art is, to a certain degree, healing. It’s probably why many try it.
So, what does art become in the absence of misery?
I am some sort of an artist, I think. And I can honestly answer that question by saying “No, art is not art without the misery.” It just sounds hollow. It sounds like something is missing.
The way I think is this.
Like most beautiful things in this universe, art is built on balance.
The artist usually balances the ugly within with some beauty without. But what happens if you are all rainbows and butterflies within? Logically speaking, yes, your art is ugly.
Do you agree? I am very honestly and openly asking this because we’ve had a long debate that right now is somewhere suspended in our atmosphere, Alin’s and mine. Alin seems to think this is all bollocks and art is a thing in itself. It doesn’t come from somewhere and you can make art when happy. I disagree. Most soul-crushing mind-bending powerful things I have written while broken. And I need that, obviously in small pieces, in my life, so I can continue to write.
My dilemma goes even a little further.
Should I f*cking quit meditation? The price for that would be my sanity. So, I guess what I am asking is: Art or sanity? See what I did there?