i don’t want to die for my art.
another self-explanatory resignation
This is part one of a three-part series that I’ve been working on since November 2024. It is my way of processing grief and death, in hopes of gaining clarity for myself. This first piece, “i don’t want to die for my art,” focuses on the grief of being an artist and relinquishing how I used to define that for myself.
Over the past few years, the saddest turn of events wasn’t my personal losses or the resurgence of my depression but my newfound, wrecked relationship to art, which I now see as intrinsically tied to suffering.
It’s tragic, really.
It is so devastating to know that people will use your suffering as a case study of self, absorbing your poetry, your paintings, your films to better grasp their existence, all the while treating you – the being – as disposable. Most art-loving, moviegoing, music-listening types don’t even realize that they’re not living up to what art requires of them, because they’re likely burnt out from the capitalistic hustle and grind culture that promises to diminish our days into nothing.
The problem extends beyond the average critiques of the content machine, the influx of derivative entertainment that leaves a lackluster aftertaste for those of us who appreciate groundbreaking art. It is people’s refusal to question WHY things are the way they are, both in the artwork itself and its distribution, that heightens artistic discontentment. In other words, there’s an increased aversion to critical thinking in regards to art and how we consume it, which further adds to the divide between the artist and the audience.
What is the end result of creating for people who constantly crave simplicity over contextualization? Is it just a fool’s errand?
Weeks ago, I read writer
’s essay “Why We’re Tired of Safe Art,” which perfectly encapsulates the struggle of being an artist today in a world where we’re expected to churn out work with minimal pay, virtually zero resources, and little support. Of course it feels like everything lacks depth when we’re leaving creatives for dead.Who is supposed to thrive in these conditions?
The devaluation of art and artists continues to enrage me, because STEM isn’t going to be what heals people’s broken souls. Perhaps the science component comes into play, when we talk about pharmaceuticals and the alleviation of mental illness symptoms, but otherwise the statement still stands.
When we listen to songs we love, watch emotionally-moving films, read poetry that speaks to our lives, we feel seen and heard. We’re easing the ache of the human condition, and it’s all thanks to artists. There is no art without the artist, which explains why so many creatives feel personally slighted by the rise of artificial intelligence and the insinuation that we – the humans behind the art – will inevitably be replaced.
That’s not going to happen, but let’s say it does.
Do you understand the precedent that we’re setting if we allow the replacement of artists by technology?
I don’t want to imagine a world where human pain is captured through tech, and tech alone, because I’m regularly witnessing the negative consequences of these devices on people’s interpersonal relationships. People rarely speak normally about others anymore, because we’re all bearing witness to a culture where people overshare intimate details about their love lives, which influences how often we compare ourselves to others.
These phones mess us up, and the one thing that is (barely) saving us is creation.
Do you really want the newness of our physiological responses replicated by a literal machine?
There’s an added layer to my bitterness that I talk about often, but not often enough, and that is the plight of the Black artist trying to make it in an antiblack society.
If we take away the machines and the economical barriers, it doesn’t change the fact that we’re left for dead. The statistics do not lie. Creative industries like Hollywood sacrifice over 30 billion dollars per year to uphold white supremacy, as reported in the Hollywood Reporter.
They’d rather lose if that means we, Black people, lose too.
In another life, I’d feign shock and devastation, but I’m a Black woman so I’m not surprised at all.
A lot of Black people, Black artists, do not get the flowers that they deserve while they’re alive. If they do, it’s often because they’ve sold their souls to the establishment or something catastrophic occurred either directly or indirectly, like the devastating murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor at the hands of bloodthirsty, racist cops. But even then, white liberals, and all of the corporate clowns who jumped on the bandwagon, failed to atone for their privileged sins, because the attempts to platform Black creatives were ultimately a gimmick.
Where is the “resistance” now, when allies watch with ease as DEI is massively overturned? Where is the “resistance” when they see Black artists crying out for help, for tangible financial support? Or is it easier to cast Black art as the background to your lives without engaging in it further?
I remember when rap artist
posted a video discussing mental health amid the streaming era. He spoke about how James Blake launched a platform that prioritizes artists. One comment, in particular, struck a chord with Mensa. Someone asked “why would I pay ten dollars for one artist when I could pay ten dollars for all artists ever?” Mensa went on to explain how this mentality really affects the mental health of artists, because basically the implication is that their art isn’t even worth ten dollars.Obviously we’re undergoing a socioeconomic crisis that affects us all, but the cavalier way in which we treat artists and their value further contributes to our struggle to connect with what they produce.
Who wants to create riveting work in this environment?
I don’t want to die for my art.
I’ve reached the conclusion that is what they expect from us all, especially marginalized artists.
We’re expected to put our bodies, souls, and health on the line while reaping very little reward, and I don’t understand the point anymore.
What’s the purpose of killing yourself to create evocative art that ultimately fails to propel people towards true advocacy? There’s so much stagnancy and inaction that I question the hope of moving the collective’s spirits by way of creation.
Given the choice of enjoying a fulfilling, prosperous life versus making critically acclaimed art, I’d choose myself every time. My life means more to me than the struggle, more than the appreciation that greets most Black artists once their bodies settle in the grave. If even my death doesn’t radically inspire the viewer, why would it inspire me?
I don’t want to work myself to the bone for crumbs in hopes that my skeletal self might receive shallow praise, lauded while my flesh is nowhere to be found, sacrificed for a creation that will likely be painfully misinterpreted until the day it lands in front of the eyes of someone who believes my work is worthy of digging deeper.
I wanted my work to mean something, to say something about me, about you, about the greater world around us. I wanted my work to evoke change, to push the needle forward in regards to some of the most neglected arenas of life – communal and familial love, accessibility, and equity.
But I no longer want these things at the expense of myself.
I no longer want art at the death of my heart.
“It's dying, Mia. It's dying on the vine. And the world says, ‘Let it die. Its had its time.” — Damien Chazelle, La La Land (2016)
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Lastly, I encourage you to read the other essays I’ve written that are similar tonally:
you don’t seem like a Good Person
In a room full of people I barely knew, I spoke passionately about niceness and the ways in which it’s weaponized.