The Weight of Expression: 11/24
From the journal November 2024:
The past week I’ve been wrestling with a question that seems to hover in the air like a persistent fog: Should I keep my personal journal going? It isn’t because I’m overly concerned about what people I don’t know think of me; rather, it’s a nagging doubt about whether I’m simply wasting my time trying to articulate my thoughts to an audience that may not even care. I wonder if, in this age of tribalism, where we cluster into our groups and cast out those who think differently, my words might just get lost in the cacophony of judgment. Will I be met with open hearts or closed minds? I find myself fearing that if my opinions diverge from the prevailing narratives, I’ll be dismissed, unfollowed, perhaps even vilified. It’s a heavy burden to carry, and I often feel overwhelmed by the weight of it all.
The truth is, contemplating this division and animosity can feel unbearably exhausting. I’ve spoken with many fellow artists who share in this malaise, that creeping sense of hopelessness that sometimes pervades our work. It’s hard not to feel as though our efforts are futile, that our voices might disappear into the void, drowned out by the noise of a world that seems increasingly polarized and disconnected. But then, in the quiet moments of reflection, I remind myself of the rich history that we, as artists, are woven into. Art has always been a powerful vessel for expressing pain, suffering, love, and the complexities of the human experience. It has the capacity to bridge divides, to communicate feelings that words alone often fail to capture, and to foster empathy and understanding in a fractured world.
Yet, I won’t deny that I am struggling. The reality of being an artist in a world where my livelihood is tied to the economy feels like a cruel paradox. When the comfort of others dictates the value of my creations, it can feel grossly transactional, as if my art is merely a commodity to be purchased or ignored based on the whims of the market. And yet, I know that creating is utterly necessary—not just for my survival as an artist, but for my very soul. It is my lifeline, my refuge from despair, a way to express the tumult of emotions that swirl within me and around me.
There’s a heaviness that settles over me these days, an uncertainty that makes me question whether continuing to express myself in this way is truly right for me at this moment. I find myself wandering into the studio, brush in hand, only to be met with a profound sense of emptiness. It’s as if the colors have drained from my palette, leaving behind a muted landscape where inspiration used to flourish. Every canvas I touch seems to morph into something I can’t bear to look at, a reflection of my inner turmoil rather than the vibrant creation I long to produce. I am enveloped in sadness, and the thought of donning a happy face to splash pretty colors across the canvas feels disingenuous, almost cruel.
There’s a nagging sense that even those who once cherished my art have turned their gaze elsewhere, seeking solace in pursuits they deem more worthy of their time and energy. Perhaps they’re right; perhaps I’m just an aging artist, alone in my studio, waxing poetic about sorrows and doubts that feel far too heavy to share. In moments like these, I wonder: who the hell cares about the struggles of a middle-aged artist? I grapple with the belief that my pain should be transformed into something beautiful and meaningful, yet all I can muster is a whisper of longing for connection and understanding. But in this raw, unfiltered space, I remind myself that it’s okay to simply be—sad and unsure, yet still here, still creating, still searching for that elusive spark that will reignite my passion.
