Journal Entry: I’m Not That Important

I discovered a new pictograph today that I had not seen before. It was very faded but the daubs of colorful pigments, carefully drawn, were still evident. It was obvious that considerable time, skill, and thought went into the drawing, the materials, and the location. This style of painting is generally associated with what people of our time named “pre-Columbian Indians of the Fremont culture”. Some are estimated to be between 1,500-4,000 years old, some were dated back as far as 7,000 years and yet more evidence suggests a culture dating back 10,000 years or more. In all likelihood, I will never know a thing about the individual who created this painting. Our best efforts can’t even reliably narrow his or her life time to within three thousand years. And yet, their work is right here, faded yet still beautiful, still inspiring, still impressive.

Other than putting our 234-year-old fetus of a nation in proper perspective, one has to wonder what will remain of us thousands of years from now and, if humans are not yet extinct by then, what meaning will they draw from it in the absence of any or all knowledge of who we were.

Granted, our lifetimes are but a fleeting instance in the vastness of time, our memory barely sufficient to reach back to our own childhoods, and our capacity for knowledge doesn’t even extend to fully grasp our own existence, let alone relate to the thoughts and motivations of one who stood and painted on this very spot thousands of years ago (an amazing thought in itself to contemplate). And yet, what do we even know about artists of our own time? of Picasso? of Michelangelo? of Cezanne? No, not their work, the persons. What were their days like? Who were their friends? Where did they dine? What unrequited loves and desires plagued their lives? What made them laugh? What memories did they carry of their childhoods? And, of what little we do know, how much will remain decades and millenia from now?

Shreds still remain of lives long gone but the people, for all their greatness in their day, are doomed to fade. With every passing moment less is remembered, less is asked, less is known, less is knowable. What remains is the legacy — the art.

A work of art, like a child, nourishes off its progenitor until acquiring an existence of its own and setting out to claim its rightful place in the universe — a place that may yet prove more important than that of the one who created it. If an artist is so lucky, their name may remain associated with their work for some time, but not much more. This is not a bad thing. Who doesn’t wish for their offspring to prosper and attain greatness in their own right?

I think of this as I ponder what it takes to garner recognition as an artist these days. As humanity continues to become more concerned with fashion and profit, more detached from the forces that sustain it, less spiritual, less curious, less aware of anything outside itself; the artist no longer has an inherent rightful place. Making the time to create, let alone earning a living in art becomes ever more challenging. Self promotion is valued above the very things being promoted.

What are the implications for us misfits not comfortable in the public eye, not interested in celebrity, not willing to make our personal lives a matter of public record? With the din of marketing ringing ever louder, more incessant, more invasive; a massive cacophonous chorus where each member belches their own tune and demands an audience, at times for no other reason than they have access to the stage. How does one reconcile the blissful solitary reverence that yields their most meaningful work with the need to be a loud, repetitive, backslapping, joke-cracking, too-cool-for-school, exhibitionist cheerleader? Is there still room in this world for the introvert? for the thinker? for the humble? for complexity and deeper meaning?

For myself, I want my work to become greater and more meaningful than my own life. I want my own indiscretions, imperfections, and mundane worries to be long forgotten and beyond the reach of knowing when my work is considered long after my time, and indeed that it may even be considered at all. I hope my art will stand on its own and be able to present to new eyes the things I came to know and feel and care about in a world and a time that may be altogether alien to them. The rest is of no importance beyond today.

Ironically, the most profound truths I came to learn are anchored in humility. I would never have experienced true awe, true discovery, and true beauty, had I not come to realize and admit my own insignificance in the grand scheme of things. Without acknowledging my own unimportance, I could never have created anything important in the first place.

What art will survive our times? Will it have the power to inspire one who randomly stumbled upon it in the desert 10,000 years from now with no knowledge of who we were, when we lived, and why we did what we did?

Tags: art, artist, guy tal, marketing, photography

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