The revolution is my boyfriend.

None the makings of an artist

Mental block, yes, that’s what this is, my current inability to put my thoughts in paper, to put some sense into my daily train of thought. Not writer’s block, mind you, for I have none of the makings of a true writer. It always feels comforting to have a name for everything we experience and sense. Or, maybe, I’m simply running out of topics to talk about.

As long as you’re passionate about it, go follow your dream. Mom says. You’re more likely to succeed in something you deeply love. Yeah, says the one who studied chemistry, for reasons that it’s practical and that it was what they would have wanted for her, and ended up being a secretary here. People tend to have romanticized ideas about careers in the liberal arts, forgetting what matters most, more than ambition, motivation, and passion, the gift. Let’s get realistic here, Paulo Coelho, and don’t go giving such big hopes for a lot of young hopefuls, only to later let their hearts be broken by the jungle-like industry.

Epitomization of beauty

I just don’t have the makings of an artiste. The eccentricities that come along with it, compared to them artists I seem commonplace. The artist’s easy access to the workings of the human heart and mind. Her effortless command over the language. His innate capability to easily go into the inner depths of the soul, the ability to epitomize both beauty and ugliness. Her eye for intricate detail. His eye for seemingly flowing words. The ability to shock, disturb, discomfort. The ability to pull its audience’s heartstrings. And not to mention all the effort and work and their willingness to devote their whole lives to their work. I just admire this but I have none of that.

And once a bunch of ambitious teens start studying in the fields of liberal arts, most, especially the ones who thought it was all going to be a piece of cake, seem to lose all interest once they see how complex the creating process is, how troublesome the whole researching process is and how competitive it is out there, not to mention all the sucking up you would have to do.  What a great way to burst people’s bubbles, show them a dose of reality, what they’re up against. They seem to be oblivious that (although Youtube has given us easy access to great films from across the world and from older periods, conquering space and time) this Youtube culture has ruined art or anything that might resemble it for the next generations. They seem to forget that most so-called great artists have only gained a real audience or obtained critical acclaim, glory, etc. after their untimely deaths or any other event before that which might seem news-worthy or controversial.

Of course, since it’s a dirty business out there, if you don’t have the gift, you could always choose to be a sell-out. That’s not hard. Use excessive sentimentality and be like Nicholas Sparks and Stephenie Meyer to appeal to the pop culture-influenced idiots among the masses. Never get outside their comfort zones, or you’ll lose your audience. Never use big words; they seem to have an irrational fear for complicated words. Market yourself as a brand, your book as a mere household product, because that’s what capitalism is for. Just do that, and, ta-da, your book has just been this week’s bestseller. What seems to matter most anyways is whether your work will be of any profit to them bigshots who make the calls. Your whole career depends on a bunch of wealthy people in the business field who know nothing whatsoever about art. Of course, your name wouldn’t be written among the names of people who have vastly contributed to history and mankind including great artists, filmmakers, novelists, etc. and the name will soon be forgotten once the passing fad is over but you’ve just influenced the next generations. Because of you, now they’re a bunch of illiterate, counterrevolutionary, and naive blubbering idiots. Gosh, thanks.