Can’t we all just get along?
The dual and often competing impulses of a multidisciplinary artist
I live with two competing voices in my head, like one of those angel and demon matching sets, shoulder-perched, except that neither thinks it’s the bad influence.
On my left, you see my wee Writer Self (W.S.), wrapped in a ratty sweater, hair wild and eyes even wilder (something akin to Johnny Depp’s portrayal of Mort Rainey in Secret Window), a goblet of wine alongside her computer screen. There’s my little Painter Self (P.S.) on my right, darling in a doll-sized vintage dress and boots, smiling wide, sipping wine from a stemmed glass. (Of course they both drink wine — are you kidding me?) They have a love-hate relationship. Full-fledged frenemies. They never want the same things, like a couple squabbling over sushi or pub grub.
Nuit Blanche, Toronto’s annual allnight art party, recently passed. I was sitting in my parents’ sunroom sipping coffee when I noticed this calendarial fact on Facebook. P.S. squealed, “Wheee! I’m in Mississauga, I’m already halfway there! I’m sure I can find a friend in the GTA to join me.”
W.S. shuddered at the thought of venturing to Toronto, pulled her sweater tighter around her chest and said, “Sure, that’s what you think. The logistics aren’t on your side, and neither am I. Committing ourselves to a scheduled social event? Pfft. Dream on.”
She then skulked away to brood over writer things, and P.S. saw no art that night.
It was P.S. who thought she could run a painting party company. (Does anyone even do that anymore?) W.S. stomped out her dream as though it were a small flame threatening to burn down the whole empire — an empire that W.S. rules with a sombre and slightly offbeat sort of grace.
You see, P.S. likes to put on lipstick and a blazer and get out there, to talk animatedly about art and life with anyone who will engage in conversation. She likes to share. Ask W.S. about her novel, and she will sigh and say, “I’m sorry, but I don’t talk about works-in-progress.”
W.S. would rather sit in the dark listening to Portishead, thinking and working, or perhaps speaking on complex philosophical topics with one choice, trusted individual.
It would be easy to conclude that these opposing forces hold each other back, and sometimes they do, but upon further reflection, they seem to build each other up just as often. When W.S. needs to perform a public reading, she calls on P.S. for her charm and confidence behind a microphone. When P.S. really needs to accomplish something instead of flitting around like a social butterfly, she requisitions W.S.’s knack for holing up in a quiet space and focusing on a task, even if people around her are having fun.
As for my whole self, my Multidisciplinary Artist Self, listening to competing desires can be tricky, and I don’t always heed the right voice. Sometimes, I feel I’ve missed out on an opportunity to engage in the artists’ community, and sometimes I regret the time (and money) spent making appearances when what I really wanted was to lay low and nurture my brainchildren.
Generally, I tend to embody each voice in turn, even though they always coexist. A flurry of social activity is usually followed by a period of downtime. This is also called introversion, but where’s the fun in that textbook term?
No, I say with confidence that my Writer Self and Painter Self have very real and tangible effects on my day-today life, and their personifications are useful in how I understand my varying impulses.
Or, maybe I’m just having a laugh. Who cares? Come on, selves, let’s all have a glass of wine and get along.