“The mind of a tortured artist is one we worship for its struggle and judge for its suffering.”

– Mila Cuda

 

 

Bob Dylan was once told in a 1991 interview that he was the world’s “greatest living poet.” But as we can guess, that probably wasn’t anything new for him to hear. So, in following, he was asked if he ever saw himself as such.

“Sometimes,” he replied. “It’s within me to put myself up and be a poet. But it’s a dedication. It’s a big dedication.”

He explained, “Poets don’t drive cars. Poets don’t go to the supermarket. Poets don’t empty the garbage. Poets aren’t on the PTA…Poets live on the land. They behave in a gentlemanly way. And live by their own gentlemanly code. And die broke. Or drown in lakes. Poets usually have very unhappy endings.”

On the outset, Dylan’s words might sound harsh. But having been one of the world’s most accomplished and influential songwriters — if there’s anyone who has lived and breathed as an inspired artist, it’s him.

He also has a very valid point: the stereotypical artist doesn’t have much of a private life outside of their art, except for one that is mostly tortured and miserable.

Tragically, it is an enduring cliché that an artist has to suffer in order to make good art. Many of us have the conventional belief that we have to constantly put ourselves through torturous situations to be in an optimally creative state.

We’d rather be broke and jobless, so that we can be solely committed to our art. We don’t go out and do things that normal people do, like meeting friends and attending social events. We allow ourselves to unravel in self-destructive habits and addictions, thinking that this would fuel our creativity.

We are willing to die for our art, or so we think.

But I’m here to tell you that the idea of dying for your art is overrated and overly-romanticized. Because if it isn’t already obvious to you, you can’t create art when you’re dead. You can’t create your life’s work when you have your head in the oven, or when you’re 20 feet underwater.

It’s undeniable that our moments of suffering can be tremendously inspiring for our art. In fact, many of the articles in this blog are a testament to that. But that’s all they are: moments. Not an entire lifetime. 

Our suffering doesn’t have to be a perpetual state that we live in to be creative. It can merely be a place that we temporarily visit or revisit, as we channel our hurts and frustrations into our art.

You’re not meant to overstay in that realm of suffering. Every day that you show up to create your art, there has to be a point where you put away your tools and come home to the real world, and function as a regular human being. 

Instead of dying for your art, I urge you to consider, how would you rather live for your art?

These are good places to start: Get into therapy to process your deep-seated traumas. Commit yourself to a simple exercise routine — even a daily 15-minute walk can do wonders for your wellbeing. Find a sustainable source of income to support your budding artistic endeavors. Make a point of socializing with people, and stay meaningfully connected with those who are dear to you. Engage in hobbies that are fun and interesting to you.

Do all you can to not only learn to love your life, but to love yourself.

Perhaps, deep inside, you’re afraid of the idea of living well. Maybe you’re afraid that doing so might dull your innate artistic sensitivity, or that it might resign you to an uneventful life, one in which there is nothing worth making art out of. 

Nothing could be further from the truth. For one thing, there will always be suffering. But the crucial difference is that living well affords you a greater clarity with which you perceive and manage your suffering. It makes it more doable for you to detach from that realm of suffering when you have to. And in turn, your art becomes much better too. 

Your art needs you to be here, alive and well. Because who else will make your art for you when you’re gone?