WHEN SHOULD ART BE POLITICAL?
We live in troubled times (but there is nothing special or rare about that). All the same, a catch-phrase circles so many of our conversations “If you aren’t part of the solution, then you’re part of the problem.” As an artist, I feel obligated — even required, to express something revelatory, maybe even profound about the hysterical cluster-fuck months of betrayal and loss we are plodding through. Almost two years ago, I began shooting a narrative series called Blackbetty that I had cooked up long before the walls came tumbling down. As I made it, I thought it was my job as a responsible citizen to integrate new ideas, new messages and observations in order for this miniature, epic story to be relevant. The fear of being out of step with the times kept me up at night. Terms like “tone-deaf” and “evasive” hung in the air above my head like storm clouds. You see, I was raised on this idea that art — a film, an album, a photograph could sum up a generation or a moment in time. To say that is my ultimate goal as a creative person is a great big yes. Does that describe you too? Do you believe you have the all-encompassing novel in you? The rallying protest song? The play that sets the audience on fire, jumping out of their seats and rioting in the streets?
So, I dovetailed fresh messages into the existing ones. At the same time, I wondered if this kind of revision was enough, or too little too late. I began writing and shooting this ambitious series way before the election had ended — with no dream of what shifts in the very bedrock of our society were in store. At one point, I threw my hands in the air and let the chips fall. In the end, we are all humble storytellers. We are not Superman, or Martin Luther King. We are not Sister Theresa, or Amelia Earhart. We are just Catherine and Tony, Joe and Stephanie and that is just fine.
Something truly unexpected happened next. I found myself with a newfound appreciation for pure expressions — for new art made without pretense, or some overt agenda. Paintings like Buttermilk Pie by my good friend (and former student) Ryan Montgomery. Ryan is a filmmaker, a fine musician and a hell of a painter. I look at this painting often, and each time it teaches me a lesson — about how to be a father, about how to appreciate the little wonders in everyday life. It may not hit you at all, or maybe it bowls you over. That’s all on you. The lesson I learned here is that we all need to find touchstones like this one — often created by someone we know. I look at this painting and somehow my feet can find the ground again. I ignore nothing, the world is still a screaming mess but now I see it with a healthy sense of calm.
I listen to a lot of music, and when something new blossoms out of nowhere I try to be there to witness it. A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a collaboration between two icons, heroes from way back when — Jimmer Podrasky and Syd Straw. The album (well the EP) is called Shoulder to Cry On . (I don’t want to get caught up in the subjective stuff — maybe you love death metal, or Icelandic polka music. It really doesn’t fucking matter.) What DOES matter is that incredible music is still being made. Honest, innocent, sincerely heartbreaking music. Albums are being recorded in living rooms. Songs about being in love with the girl next door are still being written. Is it possible that there are details and moments in these songs that speak about war, and hate, about our restless modern age? Well, over-analyzing lyrics is like asking if it’s going to rain tomorrow — it’s a pretty silly question. In a great song, the lyrics carry multiple meanings, a nesting set of dolls with no secret gooey center that will ever truly reveal itself. You love them from an arms-length, knowing that there are layers upon layers to chew on. The lesson here is not to try to create something because you think you are supposed to, instead — just write about what really matters to you on a personal, human level. The magic happens in the details. A turn of phrase, the sound of a 12-string guitar, a shadow on a wall, a close-up in a film, the gesture of a hand.
The real hard-working artists have not been sitting on their hands, crying by the side of the road with broken shoelaces, asking “Where can we go now?” No, they are cooking soup long into the night — indeed, offering us that shoulder to cry on. We are not alone, friend. That is the good news. We’re all in this together. A new catchphrase rattles around my head now, replacing the old one — “The best revenge is living well.”
Instead of asking if art needs to be political, I want to say that all art is political in its own way. Subtle, or overt — as long as it is authentic it will always hit that cultural bullseye. Maybe it will be seen by millions, maybe by twelve. It will exist. It will help shoulder our burdens. It will find a home in every lost soul that desperately needed to find it.
Do you agree?
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