I recently experienced several creative works, in close succession, I found inspiring and thought-provoking, which inevitably lead back to my favorite topic: myself.
8½ & Federico Fellini
Jonathan invited me to see 8½ at the Belcourt a few weekends ago. Knew nothing about it, never heard of it. When I bought my ticket, the cashier politely reminded me that they had an upcoming Fellini Fest. My response to this was, “Cool.” I then seated myself in the theater and when I saw the director’s name appear on screen I said, “Oh.” The cashier’s recommendation now made sense.
I was bowled over by this fever dream of a film, slipping seamlessly between grounded comedy-drama and avant-garde fantasy. I vacillated between confusion, incredulity, and laughter at the outrageous behavior of the protagonist.
8½ is about an artist with a creative block overwhelmed by the demands of those around him while also doing a fine job ruining his relationships. The whole experience is a spectacle that delves into the layers of the protagonist’s imagination revealing who this man is with all his selfish desires on display. It is exhilarating.
I walked out of the theater pondering the purpose of art, and how the protagonist sought salvation in his art only to be suffocated by the expectations of himself, his friends, his family, and his audience.
Inside & Bo Burnham
I watched Bo Burnham’s special inside my apartment only a few nights later.
I’m convinced what Bo makes is not accurately described as stand-up comedy. It is certainly a performance and art. He mixes comedy with fear in such a way that mid comedic performance you are seized with a terrifying sense of foreboding. It’s commentary, vulnerability, and simultaneously trying to make us laugh and desperately trying to communicate something dire.
What came to the fore was Bo’s effort to complete this special on his own. What he thought would only take a few months stretches to a year or more during the pandemic. He muses if he can’t finish it or won’t finish it... because once it’s done what would be left to do?
I was left alone in the dark on my couch with a lot to consider. Is he disappointed in the lack of a product? Is he clinging to this creative project to postpone an inevitable reckoning? What is the point of this seemingly torturous process he put himself through?
Berserk & Kentaro Miura
Wondering if one is creating enough/creating too slowly/why create at all drew my thoughts to Berserk’s creator, Kentaro Miura. He died just this past May leaving his world-renowned series unfinished.
Is that a failure? Leaving a work incomplete?
When I heard the news, I finally started reading his incredible manga. The detail in each frame. The imagination required for these demonic creatures. This mysterious dark fantasy world. The excellent pacing. The characters that feel like your own friends. It would be easy to dismiss Berserk for excessive violence and sexuality, but the explicitness here is very intentional. This is not spectacle (well, maybe when the protagonist cuts a knight and their horse in half with a single swing). Each scene makes a tangible impact on the characters that persists and changes them. Each moment leading to one of the most devastating betrayals I’ve ever witnessed.
I learned over Berserk’s 30+ year run Miura put the series on lengthy hiatuses and often released sporadically. I know little else of Miura, whether that be about his work ethic or worldview. We mourn the loss of a creative talent, but more do we also mourn the incomplete work? Do we wonder if he only had a little more time, or if he had only produced a little quicker?
I expect I will be disappointed once I reach the end of the incomplete story of Berserk. But where does the worth lie? In a completed series, or an incomplete one with each piece given the proper care and time? And who’s satisfaction matters here? Mine, or the Miura’s?
Me & Mine
Like many, my plans for 2020 were torpedoed. I had logged out of Instagram for the year to better focus on writing. I was scheduled to produce a short documentary. I intended to invest in my relationships here in Nashville.
All that fell apart in March.
I was able to shoot the doc before lockdown, but editing stretched on months longer than necessary.
Human contact evaporated. Digital connection faded.
My writing habit imploded without coffee shop retreats. I went from finishing a couple feature-length drafts and publishing weekly flash fiction in 2019 to zero drafts and struggling to post a monthly blog.
I wasn’t nearly as devastated by the pandemic as others, but no derailment is a treat.
On this new track we barreled down, I got Covid early and recovered without complications. I kept my job. My work was considered essential so I wasn’t suffocated by the monotony of work-from-home. I joined a virtual writing group that seems to have life beyond lockdown. The boys’ group chat solidified itself as a daily touchstone of memes and outrage. Adrian successfully reconnected me with college friends, and virtually inducted me into her TCK group and her Quarantine Film Fest hosted on Teleparty. I even attended my first protest.
So, I guess my social interaction did grow, and diversified, deepened. But my creative work was certainly a failure, right? What do I have to show for 2020?
...
Maybe what I anticipate as success isn’t a good metric.
Maybe the audience’s expectation of success isn’t a good metric.
Then how is it determined; what is its measure?
And, if achieved, will it satisfy?
And, if not, where is salvation to be found?