Creative Responsibility: A Call to This Emerging Generation of Creators

And a Kick-in-the-Ass Reason to Stay the Course of Creating

As we stand on the edge of (or as we sprint into, really) a powerful and pivotal creative renaissance, there’s something I’ve been sitting on for a while. It’s the concept of Creative Responsibility, having come to me in a “download,” almost, while meditating one evening in the quiet of my apartment. This was at the beginning of the pandemic in 2020, and I’ve been chewing over this for a while…

What does it mean? Do we have a responsibility to create? What makes an artist an artist? Is there consequence to not creating, if we know we’re made for it? Does creating matter? Why should we stay the course of creating…especially as it seems so many things stand in opposition to the artist?

I’m seeking to answer these questions — or grasp them more tangibly — over this series of literary works. Thanks for joining me as I sift through this mess.

The artist-author’s mother (and favorite artist), Marcy

Firstly, let’s start here. Why creating matters. (Everyone will try and tell the artist that their work is insignificant, especially as the world seems to be on fire. An article in one of the major news publications, I don’t remember which now, listed the artist as the most “non-essential worker,” and this couldn’t be further from the truth.)

Creativity captures and cultivates this moment in history; it’s the modern-day artist that interprets what is and presents it back to the world in a way that is to say, “Remember this moment. Feel it. Let it. Be with it. Be here with me.”

Frederick Buechner puts it better than I ever could in The Remarkable Ordinary: “So generally — and this is not a complicated point, God knows — the arts frame our life for us so that we will experience it. Pay attention to it.”

And how much more relevant and critical is this point than ever?

When we pay attention to something, it must really be striking, thought-provoking, evocative. Or at the very least, really really funny. We’re overstimulated, inundated, and fatigued — so to capture someone’s attention, even for a moment, is an honor. And if they like what they see/hear/think/feel, they’ll keep coming back. And, God willing, maybe they’ll even give you some money for it.

To be an artist means that we are storytellers, even if we’re not writers. Storytelling isn’t always textual, and often, it’s not. But storytelling brings to fruition some intangible, otherworldly wisp and makes it tangible. It injects it into time and space and creates it in reality.

Again, I’m going to lean on Buechner: “[Art] simply frames the moment. Of course, as soon as you put a frame around anything, you set it off, you make it visible, you make it real… So, art is saying Stop. It helps us to stop and put a frame around something and makes us see it in a way we would never have seen it under normal circumstances of living, as so many of us do, on sort of automatic pilot, going through the world without seeing much of anything.”

Art shocks us back into ourselves. It’s a wake up call that screams: “HEY. This matters. Not because of who I am or who you are but solely because I took the time to tell a story. To bring something into existence that, prior to me, was nothing but an immaterial wisp in the universe.”

The greatest example of this that I can think of is artist Sean Williams’ “Idiot.” In the last week of 2020, he had accidentally kicked a hole in his wall outside of his roommate’s door, and posted about it on Twitter.

He took it a step further by framing the hole, taking a photo of the damage, minting it as an NFT on the blockchain(more on crypto art here), titled it “Idiot,” and called it art. And solely because he called it art, it was.

And Sean’s calling it “art” meant that it was actually, tangibly valuable in the art space. In the real (digital) world. The piece sold to a collector for 7 Ethereum (which, at the time of this article, is worth about $12,500 USD).

What this artist had done was say — in my words, not his — “This is worth being seen. It’s worth being talked about. And fuck, maybe it’s worth some money.” He framed a moment in time for us, the viewer, and people rallied around it, understanding and relating to the idiocy that it is to be a “hümban,” as he says. He told a story; between the act of kicking in some drywall, the piece itself, and the title, “Idiot” was brilliant.

If visual art’s real estate is space, then audible art’s real estate is time (and I know we can spend time arguing space and time or lack thereof, but you know what I mean). To create in space or time is to mark history. To create is to make something tangible, visible, worth paying attention to, out of a wisp. Out of nothing. Don’t you realize what that means?

It means that you, creator, look most like the Creator, the Source, the All-That-Is — like God — when you are creating. We have been granted the ability to create like nothing else, unique to humanity (and even in considering intelligent design elsewhere, I’d put money on the idea that the creations of humanity are, even still, unique).

In The War of Art, Steven Pressfield talks about something called Resistance. This force — invisible but surely not without impact — is always at work to get us to stop creating. It manifests as imposter syndrome, as busyness, as anxiety, as writer’s block. It shows up in a myriad of ways, doing anything and everything it can to stop the creator from creating. We might even call it a force of evil, if you’d like to give it some antagonistic weight.

What Resistance does is stop the artist, the writer, the poet, the musician, from making anything at all, because it understands the magnificence that IS a creating creator. It knows the gravity of a human aware of their relation to — and entanglement with, and representation of — the Source. The Creator.

If successful, Resistance might, for example, talk the painter out of painting and into scrolling Instagram , seeking “inspiration” from others but instead falling into a pit of comparison and a questioning of themselves (“Why can’t I make it like this person? Why isn’t my work good enough to sell?”). And while they’re there, what are they not doing? Painting, of course.

The reason this matters so much is because, the more we look like the Source — the Creator — the more this earth will look like heaven (or, however you might call a more unified, loving, compassionate, enlightened earth).

If you’re an artist in any capacity at all, I beg you with everything you’ve got: Stay the course in creating. Keep making. Regardless of what anyone says, keep going. And if you’re wondering what Creative Responsibility looks like in the day-to-day, here are some examples:

1. Show up like a professional. Treat your craft like it matters more than anything. You show up for work every day (on time, probably)…so why not show up for your work every day, too? You will shock your socks off to see the compounding effects of showing up for yourself consistently.
2. Engage with your creative community. Share the work of others, tell your favorite artist that they’re your favorite artist, and buy work, as much as you’re able.
3. Stop giving in to fear. (Maybe you’re giving in to imposter syndrome, maybe you’re scared of learning a new skill, maybe you’re disqualifying yourself before anyone else even has the chance.) Pressfield writes, “Are you paralyzed with fear? That’s a good sign. Fear is good…it tells us what we have to do. The more scared we are of a work or calling, the more we have to do it.”
4. Accept that it’s not gonna be easy. Artists are considered “tortured souls” for a reason. This is the human’s greatest responsibility and you think this shit is gonna be cake? Again, I’ll lean on Pressfield: “The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell, whether he knows it or not. He will be dining for his duration on a diet of isolation, rejection, self-doubt, despair, ridicule, contempt, and humiliation.”
5. Say “yes” to work, collaborations, commissions, and projects that are authentic to you who you are and the stories you want to tell. Though, especially at the beginning, this isn’t always feasible, be intentional about what work you put your name on. Be curatorial about your connections. The career you build is just that…it’s what you build. Make sure you love it along the way, because there’s no such thing as a final destination.
6. Say “no” to anything that makes you hate your work and disrupts your peace. Get your money, but not at the expense of your well-being. It will be worth it in the long run to hold fast to your authenticity, your story, and your values. Compromise will hurt more than money will help, long-term.
7. Never stop learning. Be a lifelong learner, on fire for growth and skillful, technical, and stylistic maturation. The market is saturated, and you’ll quickly be overshadowed the moment you become complacent. Pride in thinking you’re the best — or “good enough” — will destroy your longevity and relevance beyond tomorrow.
8. Take some time to figure out who you are. We’ll be evolving until the day we die, so we’ll never “arrive,” but spend some time with yourself, exploring styles and mediums and fields without getting stuck in comparison. Make to make, finding inspiration wherever you can, and your unique style and positioning will begin to make itself known to you. It’ll come to life on its own the more you make. “Our job in this lifetime is not to shape oursleves into some ideal we imagine we ought to be, but to find out who we already are and become it.” (Pressfield)
9. Lean into your story (and yes, your suffering). We don’t suffer for ourselves; we suffer for the sake of others, to lead as examples that we can come out okay on the other side of pain and trauma. I didn’t start drawing nude women one day because I felt like it; after years of body hatred, an eating disorder that landed me in the ER, and sexual abuse, drawing the woman’s figure was therapy for me. It was the only way I knew how to come home to myself, and discover a love for my womanhood again. What was for me is now for others, too, and that’s the dream.
10. Get the f*ck out of hiding. (This one is personal.) What are you afraid of? That your work won’t be perceived the way you want it? That you won’t make sales? That your parents won’t approve of what you do? You’re probably right. Expect the worst, and then let it all go. Right now. Your Creative Responsibility — to yourself, first and foremost — is to create regardless of the opinion of man (or parent). Nobody has influenced cultures and defined generations by avoiding criticism. Welcome it, because it’s coming, and then rest assured that you’re doing it right. Congratulations on being an artist.

Ultimately, creating is more than a “paint-by-numbers” way to pass the time on a Saturday afternoon. It’s not dumb, it’s not pointless, it’s not a waste of time or money or skill. It’s more than arts and crafts (although it certainly includes them). Creativity is a calling to the artists of every kind — the makers and shakers, the generation-shapers. It’s a calling to all of us.

Creative Responsibility isn’t an obligation; it’s an honor. And it isn’t a chore; it’s your calling to put pen to paper…for societal disruption, sometimes, or just for joy for other times. That’s for you to decide.

We get to use our imagination, and our innovation, and our wildest dreams and nightmares and everything in between, to bring heaven to earth — whatever that means for you — to pave the way, to set the standard, to defy expectation, to redefine culture.

This is our Creative Responsibility.

This is only the beginning of the discussion around Creative Responsibility. I promise you, there’s SO MUCH more where this came from. I just need to sift through it all.

Connect with me on Instagram or Twitter, and check out my work here. If you want more of this kind of stuff, check this out. Thanks for swinging by!