Lay down. Not just anywhere, though. Find a nice patch of comfortable grass on the outskirts of your favourite city, and just lie down, still. Take the time to take in the night-time scenery, to really feel what is going on around you. Be aware of the wind disturbing your arm hairs, as you gaze out into the distance. Find somewhere high up. A hill, preferably, maybe a mountain. Look down, and try to connect with each individual street light, every house lit from within, every neon bar sign that illuminates the nocturnal lives of thousands, millions of people all living their lives in ritualistic counterpoint to the still night air. Feel all of it. Don’t stir.
Pick one light. Your light, if you can. Trace the arterial roads from the bypass into the city, and follow the same back-streets that you drive every day on your work commute. Let your eyes take you on a journey through the city streets, by proxy of your memories. Find your home. Find it, and concentrate. It dims, and you try to clutch at the rays from your fluorescent kitchen light, as it flees through the infinitesimal gaps in between your shadow-drenched fingers. It’s gone. Your home is lost forever in the glare of the competing lights from a city far more immense than you can ever truly fathom. A million lives, all existing in spite of each other, vying for the same attention.
This home represents your band, the light is your art. No matter how brightly you shine, you will inevitably be drowned out by the sheer brilliance of the collective. No matter how uniquely your light waves arrange themselves, they will be subsumed by the white. You are doomed to be forever dimmed by the mass of lights cluttering up the night sky, and the more people try to fixate on your beam, the further it recedes. Futility is attempting to pierce the light with more light. Fighting fire with fire will only get you burned.
Those who create light don’t care for those observing. They meticulously, painstakingly agonise over every particle, aiming to replicate the visions in their mind. There is no consideration to how the light will be perceived by those who watch from afar. Those who create light are their own judge, jury and executioner, and the sentence is rarely served in full. It is impossible to outlive discontent, assuage unfulfilled ambition, and sate the despondency of reaching for the stars, only to fall agonisingly short. Those who create light, do so, not because they can, not because they want to, but because they must.
And so it is, as we observe that light, flickering in and out of our consciousness at the edge of our peripheral vision, the creator is conflicted. They are paradoxically bound to the consumer, whilst they pursue their own ends with a bloody-mindedness that belies the symbiotic relationship betwixt artist and patron. Without the creator, the patron’s soul is barren; without the patron, the artist is hungry. On and on the two dance, a harmony of shifting bodies. One of those bodies provides the mystical waltz that dictates the rhythm whilst the other grants a stable support frame for their partner’s expressive bent. It is a beautiful thing to behold. Life has meaning, in this space. Life matters here.
It can be disorientating, being a creator in a world filled with its own stories, each as important and complex as your own. It can be disheartening, too. The frustration of watching your beam clash, then blend into the monochrome lightscape, can be far more than the creator can bear. It is not easy to bare one’s soul to the world, only to have the world decide your creation is disposable. Unfortunately, it is also necessary. It is a necessity to feel the pain of rejection, as it gives flight to the true joy of elation. No light exists without shade. No shadow exists without light. Life is far richer for the presence of both peaks and troughs, and art is the purest reflection of life, both experienced, and imagined.
Life and art are one and the same, to those who truly wish to create it. Art is its own validation, and the most intimate thing we can bring forth to this world. Enjoy the process. Create. Live. Disregard all criticism. Use it as fuel. Ignore your contemporaries. Learn from them. Embrace the duality of the honest lie, and lose your identity in pouring your soul onto a canvas, or a page, or a recording. For in this we are all, intimitely, creators of our own story, and that is art.
Publisher at IPHYB
Chris Giacca just may be the worst writer in the world, but it doesn't matter because he probably still has a bigger audience than you, so he is by default automatically right about everything. No exceptions. He's currently writing a novel which will be uploaded in single chapter installments as spoken word on bandcamp. Physical releases will be on laser disc only, limited to 17 1/2 units. Don't ask about the half.
Latest posts by Chris Giacca (see all)
- CJ McMAHON Rejoins THY ART IS MURDER, Band Insists Things Will Be Different This Time - January 15, 2017
- 10 Shit Songs That Are Shit - October 10, 2016
- CHERRY BAR Poo Their Knickers Over Bad AIRBOURNE Review, Hilarity Ensues - October 7, 2016