Dear World 

Please Kill Me, 

There are few more maligned, abused, and discontented creatures that suffer walking this earth than the working artist. I’m not just talking about the “aspiring” among us (because that’s a shitstorm in its own right) but those of us who’ve managed to scratch and claw our way into a subsistence that perpetually borders on failure and homelessness.  

Honestly, the streets of California, New York, and every major city in between are paved with the remnants of those broken hearts, souls, and dreams. If you’ve encountered the homeless begging on a corner, or waiter begging for a tip, or an Uber driver giving you that over-friendly smile, then chances are you’ve seen someone fighting at some tipping point along the creative spectrum—either hoping on their way up or unwittingly deteriorating on their way down.  

The sad fact is that most of us won’t make it. Some might. But even they only get across the barbed wire of chance by succumbing to a litany of scammer-agent scars, bleeding financial wounds, and Weinstein-flavored bruises that they would hide in polite company. Because, ya’ know, nobody wants to hear an artist complain.  

Admittedly, it’s a little much to ask the laymen and uninformed to understand the plight that we face. In their eyes, we’ve chosen a much-warned-against path that could only rightly lead to one conclusion—failure. Even still, they also hold a not-so-quiet resentment against us. It’s not because we did anything wrong (except for those of us who did) but because of what they themselves have had to do.  

The average person (driven by conservative cowardice) makes a million and one concessions before inevitably finding the uniform that will define their lives. They see their end as we do— “Here lies [X] a beloved [Insert Unimpressive Life Here]“. It’s the reason people mythologize themselves and create faux-point systems to grade their success. Every artist’s existence threatens their manufactured reality—until we fail. 

As much as they would hate to admit it, the thought of being a nobody terrifies Joe and Joan Blow. I suspect it’s the reason they occupy their minds with the rat race of MORE and BETTER. MORE MONEY. BETTER TOYS. MORE PLEASURE. BETTER EVERYTHING.  

The endless chase will keep them occupied (because the void within them is unfillable and their lives are insufferable). The tradeoff for their sacrifice—a semblance of stability. At least, that’s what it was before COVID. Who the hell knows now??? We’re one good nuke away from sticks, stones, and “oonga-bunga”-chatter.  

At least we’re already in tribes.  

The truth of it is that everyone wants to be creative. They wish they could hack it and even more so that they had the unrequited gall to risk it all for their passion. Soon enough, those passions fade (part of the sacrifice) and they find themselves with nothing but that bitterly resentful void.  
 
MORE!  
MORE!! 
MORE!!!!  
 
Even the business-minded among them, who capitalize on their begrudged brothers and sisters, are never satisfied until the designated consumers have been shaken free of every loose cent. 

All just to feel something. All to feel special. 

But that’s their world.  

The world that artists occupy exists on two sides of a very different coin. Instead of uniforms and 401k’s, artists tend to live moment-to-moment on ramen and favors. Instead of the humdrum 9-5, working artists tend to have more flexibility. Instead of the dreaded “Here lies X… Died taking a shit.” artists get to dream of a lifetime achievement award they may never see.  

But that’s okay.  

We tend to prefer a private pat on the back anyway (we’re an aloof bunch but not oblivious to our luck). 

So why am I talking about this??? 

If you’re assuming that this is about the WGA-SAG-AFTRA strikes, then you’re not entirely wrong.  

But those wily gladiators on the picket line aren’t just some over-privileged tweens throwing a temper tantrum (some are, most aren’t). The picketers represent a mere microcosm of a problem that has plagued artists since the beginning of time—people don’t love us, until they need us.  

Why else did you think striking was the solution? They’re artists.  

We have no bargaining chips besides our art. Withholding it starts a conversation (or should). 

Why else do you think the executives are playing hardball? Because no matter how many zeros and commas occupy their bank accounts, they’ve had to make those same dream-killing concessions that have stonewalled millions into the caves of costly consumerism, empty euphemisms, stupid sentiment, fucked formalities, and the splintering ladder of a life they didn’t really want.  

Most people just want to be on stage receiving admiration for a song they never sang, a painting they never painted, or a story they never told. They’ll never see that, so they hate those who do.  

Why else do you think the world has had a veritable orgasm at the thought of A.I.– freeing the sculpture hidden deep within them?  

“FINALLY,” they think. “I MADE ALL THE RIGHT CHOICES NOW ART IS LIBERATED FROM THE LOSERS!!!” 

Well no.  

At least not until A.I. gets a serious gut check, memory, emotions, and awkward sentience.  

But at that point, why would it need them?  

I suspect that in a year or two, most who plan on releasing their inner Da Vinci into the world will realize that A.I. is little more than a Tesla. It can handle the basics. But somebody’s got to have their hands on the fucking wheel.  

I can only imagine the insurmountable rage that will build when they find that they’re just giving artists digital steroids—further widening the gap between their dreams and harsh realities while giving true creatives an even wider plane of opportunity. Some will rise. Others will fall. The ground will level out. 

What remains true is this: Creativity needs creativity.  

They’ll quickly fuck around, find out, and hate us more; while desperately attempting to lower the standard quality of entertainment by the sheer volume of fecal fiction and reality television (synonyms?). 

Oddly enough, we artists didn’t ask for this. We simply wanted to pursue a craft that made us feel fulfilled. One that makes us happy, if not wealthy. One that allows us to share the trauma-born beauty inside of us with those who can no longer feel.  

By the way, when I say “artists” I’m not just talking about the Margots, Pitts, Kings, or JKRs of the world. I’m talking about “Coffee Drinker #4” from Seinfeld Episode 703 or the author who writes short stories for free—just for the love of the fucking game. I’m talking about the artist with millions of die-hard fans who only releases an album when the art is ready (#Kendrick #Beyonce #Adele #FrankOcean). That’s who most of us are. Do you hate them too?  

Do you want the pressure of their lives?  

Didn’t think so. But they DO. WE DO.

Yeah, we’re kind of big kids. But don’t we need that? Haven’t we always needed that? Someone to stare into the abyss of humanity and let their minds weave sense from the chaos?

Would you rather we be shaking up some fries with you? Would you rather us stink up the cubicle next to you with depression farts and Cheeto dust? Do you really want ME meeting YOU at the water cooler—telling you about that Animorph dream I had while you scratch your ass and later sniff your fingers?  DO YOU THINK I’M KEEPING THAT A SECRET?!?!?!

NO!!!

YOU WANT THAT SHIT ON YOUR HANDS, TOO, GREG?!?!?!

NO!!!
 
(Sorry… Flashback) 

It’s best we not go there…

Without artists and real art, all the world is left with is the viper-pit of MORE! MORE!! MORE!!! 

How long does that last before the end of the empire? Haven’t you already seen how it’s decayed moralities? Doesn’t it bother you that every time art dries up, we’re suddenly at each other’s necks—arguing over politics and politicians who wouldn’t piss on us if we were on fire? Artists barely scrape by (or maddeningly succeed) while making sense of the world so that you don’t have to gamble with your own limited time and sanity. Even better, we want to!  It’s about the dream. Not the accolades.

Be happy that someone’s willing to risk their sanity, stare into the entropy of time and space, and bring you back something that reignites your humanity. Most of us aren’t glory-seeking. We’re broke and broken, ethereal interpreters (many of us with drug and alcohol problems). The only glamour we get is the finished product of our efforts and by then we’ve mostly moved on—then WE STILL HAVE TO MARKET THE DAMN THING (urgh). 

You DON’T want this. It isn’t playtime. 

The best of us are willing to suffer on the off chance we’ll improve someone’s moments. The least you can do is not make our hill steeper. The very least is not to denigrate or degrade us (we’re gentle beasts who barely shower…just trying to make some kind of difference). If you don’t feel that, then there’s nothing to thumb your nose about. You’ve simply got us all wrong. 

Like it or not, the world needs artists and dreamers. Because no matter how selfishly you feel about the dynamic (and let’s not forget, these are choices here) we keep society loosely knit together. We create meaningful conversations that set your mind ablaze with new ideas that reignite the spark inside of you—even if it’s just for a few seconds, minutes, or hours.  

Don’t we need that? Shouldn’t we want that? Would you hit LeBron James on the knees with a cast iron skillet just because your basketball dreams didn’t pan out? Who does that help? What does that solve? Do you know what you get to do while he soars through the air? You get to believe a man can fucking fly.  

Artists are no different.  

We help you dream. We help you think. We help you connect and see things differently. I don’t think that’s a bad thing to aspire to be. It’s the REALEST job of them all—more often unpaid than not. 

So, the next time you hear a friend or loved one express their desire to pursue their passion, don’t turn up your nose just because you turned down your potential. Let them dream.  

You never know who they may be. And you never know who their dreams might impact.  

If they fall, fine. Don’t step on the broken glass. Appreciate the nobility of their desire.  

I say all of that to say, maybe lay off the artists a little. Yeah, some of us are degenerate sociopaths, just looking to receive the psychological fix of payment and praise. But most of us just want to make things a little brighter. A little less chaotic. And a little more human.  

Those men, women, and others bearing the heat, hostility, and hate—they just want to be treated like they’re NOT SHIT and to keep creating.  That’s all any artist truly wants. Genuine appreciation is the real success.

Again, I don’t think that’s such a bad thing. 

Until Next Time,

— Antwan Crump