Sometimes I get in the old funk where I don’t really know the point of it all. This usually comes at the end of a long set of days or weeks where  sleep is short and work tremendous. It’s a trance state, like a spirit quest, only the wilderness I wander is between my ears and the fasting involves a lack of shut eye. I remember reading somewhere that the Sioux believe(d) the waking life is the unreal realm and our dreams hold the truth about the world. I kind of like the notion that perception, more than anything, defines the world for each human.

So, why the odd quote to title this rant? When I need some grounding in my trance-funks, I don’t reach for Thoreau, Emerson or Nietzsche; I go straight for the train-wreck of Charles Bukowski. Why? Well, because he was living proof that the life of the artist isn’t all it’s cracked up to be by those fortunate few who had friends in colleges, publishers and journals to ensure some kind of “fame and fortune” (although, late in life, he did feel some of both). It’s not a romantic existence. It’s often brutal, leading to early deaths or late crack-ups.

Now, the other, more true reason I turn to Bukowski is to reflect on what I think of myself. Am I a mad poet? Nope. Do I consider what I do as art? No. Would I consider myself to possess something of the literary spark? Sometimes. Am I living in a half-rotten apartment with a radio blaring Wagner and drinking cheap wine until 3AM? No. Thus, I’m doing alright. As long as I don’t follow the path of Bukowski, I’ll be fine. Modest Mouse (the band) has a great song about this very feeling.

To get to the quote (finally): “To make art, one must be crazy always/and alone.” An interesting thought. One that some folks take to heart, even some who have never read a line of Charles “Chinaski” Bukowski. But I don’t find this to be true in my own work. While, I don’t consider myself an artist in the way Chuck meant it, I do consider creative expression to be something I do from time to time. I do this best within a group of like-minded folks where we are all a part of the creative and critical process. Without the input of others, the work that is done could easily become a navel-gazing, dime-a-million piece of cultural crap, speaking only to the person who made it and very few others.

True, to be a cartoonist, one must often be alone and a little crazy, but in my opinion, it can’t stay there. Even Robert Crumb (someone who illustrated several Bukowski stories in his time) have other cartoonists to work with and had to get out and sell Zap out of a baby carriage.

But it doesn’t end with just artists helping each other, the life of a creative person is defined mostly by those who enjoy her or his work. It is to you, reader and friend of the Rare Bits that I blog. Thank you for reading, and please feel free to comment, good or bad, on our little posts. More than craziness, it’s why we doe what we do.Share/Bookmark