Axolotl Talks: Make Stuff Today.
I think there's something to be said about the artist's tendency to compare oneself and the feeling that one isn't as good as what they look up to or are inspired by.
I've been listening a lot to independant-ish artists that so far i've become enamoured by: Will Woods mad ramblings and heartfelt words in The Normal Album, Lemon Demon's exploration of the horrific in Spirit Phone, Miracle Musical's narrative enchantment in Hawaii: Part II, Vylet Pony's entire discography from and after Cutiemarks (and really soon will start listening to what sea has made after). All of these musicians bring a tear to my eye, they arise the awe of what music can be from start to finish, and put a great burden of shame upon my soul.
How come anyone be at all confident in their skill? in their knowledge of the craft? In the motions of their hands as they play their sweet tunes or the voices that emanate from their oft honey-laden vocal cords? It vexes me, it allures me, it puts me to further shame.
I cry at night thinking about the stories I'd like had happened to me, the ones I wish I had been a part of in other's lives, and I find the comfort of feeling part of a universe through my consumption of media. Music in particular makes me feel vulnerable, naked in a way that does not relate at all to the physical but the spiritual. I'm not just a consumer, or at least try not to be, but rather an analyst and a reader of the undertones of everything I hear spoken, read written or catch visually.
My motivation as an artist, hence, comes not from the ideal of immitating and trying to become a rich and famous micro-celebrity with a following in the thousands (though right now it would greatly help economically). I want to tell stories. I have people in my head that live their daily lives, that go on adventures, that have relationships and breakups, and I want to talk about that people. But I believe myself unable or rather incompetent to do so. I can't write them believably, I can't compose them or sing them the way they sound in my head and I can't picture them on paper for I do not have the patience to do so.
Patience, perhaps, is the greatest joy and the biggest misery for an aspiring artist. Have you any patience, you may find it most enjoyable to practice and master a craft. Be you like me, however, the want turned need to see the finished product and focus on it rather than the process makes the entirety of it a drag. Please, don't let me rush anything in my life ever again; I may have made great music in the span of hours, but that's an extranatural state of mind that's otherwise stranger to this vessel.
Glance upon me, dear reader, and do so dearly and with a delicate eye. I may fade into obscurity if pressed too hard, asked the wrong questions, maybe even glanced at with too little care. Understand that what you see is frail and, though motivated, ephimeral in it's wake. I am alive, as are you, and our creations (should you too partake in the arts) are the only remnants that our souls may one day leave upon this dirt ball hurling down the spatial lane that is our planet. Make things, though cringe as they might be, such that they are yours and yours alone. Be sure that somebody will inevitably bawl their little hearts out listening to them one day.