Maybe the issue is an inherited impulse to be creative, but primarily as an exercise in value-making. Participation in the creations of others, for so many of us, has been made to feel like a means to an end. We read books to become better writers, or so we can seem well-read. We listen to music to sharpen our influences and find our “target audience.” I know I’m not alone in this vulnerable, terrified exercise—studying the things I enjoy and swatting away insecurities until my own inspiration strikes. This affected pursuit is not new. Whether we like it or not, aesthetic life under capitalism becomes dominated by the commodity form. Art practice, with all its ethereal and sublime possibilities, begins to feel like an exclusive members-only club.
The problem is not that everyone wants to be an artist, it’s that enjoying art with other people for the simple, loving pleasure of it all has become devalued. If that’s the case, what are we even doing all this for? Why be an artist at all if we can’t enjoy the things we create?
“Why was New York City ballet so great?” she asks. Well, there was George Balanchine and Jerome Robbins. Sure. But, that audience.
“There was such a high level of connoisseurship, of everything. That made the culture better. A very discerning audience…is as important to the culture as artists. It’s exactly as important.”
If everyone’s a DJ but no one dances or earnestly cares about the music, everything has to be broader, more conspicuous. Artists are pressured to do whatever possible to be seen and heard, not their best work out of love.