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Today I had milkshakes with a friend of mine. He’s a recorded music major here.

We discussed the everything from our current projects to the things we aspired to be—perhaps the most lengthy bit of conversation we had was the one about the trials and tribulations of being an artist. 

Amidst all of the usual gripes (money, future, school, etc) we found ourselves addressing the issue of how seriously to take oneself right now. We both are extremely passionate about what we do, finding inspiration from odd things, obsessing constantly over what we should and could be doing while we are doing nothing. We then touched on the subject of where art stems from in the first place. 

He talked about art as something that comes naturally as a kind of resort; it’s something that we turn to when we can find no other way to say what we want to say to its fullest extent. It comes from a place of uncertainty. It’s what happens when we discover that our words will not be enough, our actions will not be enough. It’s a sixth sense, a phantom limb, that needs to be used in order to remain active. 

I discussed art as having something else to say: something beyond the mundane something deeper than “I love you” and more disturbing than “I’m sad.” It comes from something—an experience, a reaction, a sensitivity—something that makes us see differently and hear differently. Artists are at the height of their emotions at any given time because they are always ready to say something about something else. 

The problem with this is, while we agree that it’s true, we feel nervous and a little pretentious dealing with our arts—and by extension, ourselves—so seriously when we are so young. 

At the same time, how can one approach what they are passionate about if they aren’t taking it seriously at every moment? How can there be a true satisfaction with one’s product if it doesn’t have a little bit of that person behind it? How can we be okay with presenting something as a piece of art without wanting it to mean something? 

This is not to say that all art has to be tragic, or instructive. But if it isn’t important or serious to the artist, how can it be expected to stand alone as a creation? And yet it seems like almost all things popular these days aren’t meant to say anything at all. Art is becoming a way to make money, a mass-production of almost the same thing over and over. It’s becoming a way to achieve a mystery about one’s persona; an added trait that makes one seem alluring, rather than an outlet, or a cathartic experience that is important to the audience as a piece of work, and important for the audience to see as a representation of the artist. 

We didn’t really arrive at an answer for this; we both still feel in some ways that we stand for something. But we’re worried that the reason behind art is changing too quickly for us to keep up. Our cathartic processes are starting to seem narcissistic, and we can’t control that because that very aspect—the catharsis—is why we’re drawn to our art forms in the first place.We’re worried that because we care so much, we won’t be as successful. And we’re worried that we have almost too much to say and too little time to say it. 

howdoiputthisgently:

I’M LIKE:

BUT WHEN I SAY YOLO:

just what it is