For some odd reason, the people I admire the most are those battling some inner war inside of them, which yields them from being their true selves. They wear a suit every day and put on their best face. However, once the suit is stripped off, the truth is revealed. The true colors of their moods is uncovered and a messy, broken human is left. A messy, broken human that despite being made up of positive and negative emotions, highs and lows, is ultimately just a human, like me.
Aren't we all just that?
Some of my heroes have this brokenness to them, like Marc Maron, David Berman, Virginia Woolf, and Anthony Bourdain. All of them deceased, but Maron.
It is a weird coincidence that my heroes died tragically by committing suicide. They all suffered from some sort of depression, substance abuse, or even both. Whether they chose to go public with their struggles or not, their struggles proved to me we are all fighting something that is in us. Yet, we try to wear a facade to keep our real identities separate from what we show to the world. My heroes, broken and battered, seemingly happy one day, yet sad the next, created art that spoke volumes and showed their true colors. Their art could have been used to cloak their dark inner-workings, but I like to think their art actually revealed their duality, which makes these heroes more special to me. For me, it is impossible to feel one way or another. I am a messy human and I feel comfort in seeing I am not alone.
I am not going to lie...It creeps me out that I feel connected to these people, who endured so much sadness and pressure from the dark forces in their minds. I am fascinated by them because the art they created transformed their melancholia into something else. I do not think it is a secret that for some, art helps with coping. I have heard this generalization my whole life: art helps release pain. In some instances, it can release fear and anger one carries. I mean, look at Maron! His podcast mostly revolves around the notion of speaking to demoralized, talented individuals, who provide insight on how they overcome personal battles. In turn, these conversations help Maron become a more decent human being and redeem his angry, destructive past self.
You can insert anything to fill in the blank as to what art does for someone battling a force bigger than themselves. It makes me wonder: do you need to be depressed, angry, or lonely to create works of art? I don't know.
But doesn't it make art that much better? At least, that is how I see it. In a way, art from a broken person's point of view becomes more meaningful.
For instance, although Van Gogh's Sunflowers series emits yellow vibrant auras, it does not give me feelings of joy. The National Gallery discusses the duality this series displays. The National Gallery states yellow to Van Gogh was an "emblem of happiness," but "these flowers also remind us of the cycle of life and death." It is ironic that something outwardly visually pleasing and alive, like sunflowers, are in actuality decaying.
Seemingly, my heroes fall victim to this irony. Take Bourdain -- his shows portrayed his vibrant life, which indeed may have not been so vibrant. Woolf wrote outstanding literary novels about human nature and tried to make sense of it all, but ultimately fell to her demise. Berman, with his funny, easy-going drawl sang life gets "really really bad."
We suffer and sometimes making art is the only way in which life becomes a bit more manageable.
For the past three months, I felt broken. Literally and figuratively because I didn't have my period for three months and when something consistently stops happening to my body, I naturally fall apart. And I did. My hormones were all over the place, I experienced very high highs and extremely low lows. It was an unfamiliar and unpleasant feeling. Yet, in an odd way, I liked it. Weirdly, it gave me a reason to wallow in my dark emotions and I believed this must have been exactly how my heroes felt. They must have felt this destroyed, leading them to create art like never before.
I let horrible thoughts creep into the corners of my mind. I thought shitty things about myself and hated how I was creatively struggling and unable to write anything. I felt stuck, unmotivated, yet I had this urge of something trying to release itself. I wanted to take action. There was a duality to my literal and figurative absence of a true spark -- that spark not only being my physical period, but also my ability to create.
I allowed myself to be sad, to cry, to scream, and somehow, the spark came back. I wrote in my journal more, read more books and personal essays, and somehow I began to create again.
We have our good moments and our bad moments. Sometimes, you can experience both at the same time. Human nature has this duality to it and I realized art can help you work through those confusing, dark times.
The Silver Jews' lyrics to "Punks in the Beerlight" are stuck in my head:
"Let's not kid ourselves.
It gets really really bad.
Punks in the beerlight
Burnouts in love."
Life has its highs and lows. It is okay to be a burnout, feeling amazing one moment and horrible the next. Through all the bullshit, there is still some love and light at the end. It gets hard, but that is the dual nature of life.
I want to end my jumbled thoughts with Maron's words about the recent passing of David Berman:
"It's hard if you're sensitive, if you're teetering or prone to depression or unstable in those ways in your mind. And sadly much of that disposition lends itself to a type of creativity that has to resolve existence in that darkness. You need to express yourself in order to get through it."
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