It’s normal now and then to think of death—preferably happening to other people. Yes, we know we’re mortal, but don’t want our world to end just yet, okay? Sometime later would be fine. As Woody Allen says, ‘I’m not afraid to die; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.’ So we won’t write out a will, and feverishly go on making future plans like we are going to live forever. By extension this means we don’t cork our creative juices either. Architects go on building, poets go on composing, chefs go on shelling peas… How do we know when are we to stop? Who will tell us?
Which, by the way, accounts for some of the bad art coming our way. The dilemma any creative person faces is: he/she has taken a long time to find their feet in their respective field and is only now reaping the commercial success from their art. Why stop when you have a good thing going? That fame could freeze you in its own timeline, allowing no room for future growth, seems a negligible risk to take. Professional honey is sweet on the tongue, personal evolution be damned.
Artistic CSR (corporate social responsibility) is rarely spoken of as any art out there is for both the artist and the consumer anyway. But sitting back and letting fresh blood take over is perhaps a mature act of selflessness at some point in life, a kind of abdicating in the interests of the next crown prince or princess.
No critic is going to bell the cat and call out the rot in your mural, not after the mass hysteria and the awards. And this is not even an ageist argument—sometimes an author has just that one book in him/her and Jennifer Aniston will always be Rachel.
The trouble is after a point artistic credibility is stretched and audience gullibility strained. The applause comes from who you were, not so much who you have become. Don’t recycle yarn from pre-famous era, which not only clouds the suddenly garnered acclaim, but also bewilders the good reader into brailling for quality in the dark.
Put down that pen, dry that brush, throw away that flute, rub off that grease paint. Writers, however best-selling, ask yourself if you have something new to say. Artists, does your canvas still whisper sweet techni-colours to you? Musicians, start mentoring—Mick Jagger, we mean you too. Actors, please stop romancing your grand-daughter’s classmates on screen. Comedians without the punch-line, columnists spewing hot air, activists in their echo chambers, authors self-consciously catering to their readership… The demise of talent is a sad thing. No one’s invited to the funeral.
Of course, one must continue in his/her own space, to feel content and relevant, but perhaps think twice before foisting self-indulgent produce on fans just because the fans won’t say no. The next step is an honest self-critique, tweaking hypocrisies. Serve muse, not self.
A good death in life as well as in literature would mean making way with grace and goodwill. And knowing when your time on Planet Fame is up.
Shinie Antony
Author
shinieantony@gmail.com