no one told me not to

I say this as someone who sells pottery, and many people who see my art assume I am using art as an outlet to “express myself.”

I am not.

I use art to challenge myself. A lot of what I do is the equivalent of doing a hard sudoko or a half marathon, answering the question of “can I do this?”

I use art to question things and explore ideas. Finding physical synthesis between concepts and working out a design to its end state.

I use art to make money. I make some things just because I suspect they’ll sell well, and I keep making them when they do.

This idea that an artist is “putting themselves out there” every time they create is not only stupid, but harmful, and it kills critique and analysis.

Yes every creative work is influenced by its creator, but the most preliminary step of analysis is to define the purpose of a work of art (functional, narrative, entertainment, persuasive, decorative, ceremonial, etc.) and a vanishingly small percentage of that is self-expression. Even then, it’s generally tied to the self’s relationship with something else—perception, society, etc.

It’s very tiresome to have people assume they know you because they like (or dislike) your art, to make assumptions about who you are and how you approach the world. It’s nothing new— people called the Impressionists insane and the Fauvists degenerate. And now people are expected to hand out their identities and traumas to prove they have the right to explore certain subjects.

Because artistic expression can be incredibly deep or maybe not, but the point is it’s not usually about the artist’s self.

It doesn’t need to be about the self to be meaningful.

Hell, so much of the art made by humans throughout history is religious, and deeply meaningful, and for most of human history across the world, religious art is very much not tied to the self.

Really the first time we get a visual art movement that’s strongly linked to the self is Surrealism—and not even all Surrealists! de Chirico was engaging with metaphysics and Nietzsch more than his own psyche (okay he’s kind of a proto-surrealist but still.)

What’s frustrating for me is that people look at or engage with art—especially art they don’t understand—and instead of thinking about its purpose, it’s place in history, and the ideas it’s trying to grapple with, they assume the art must be about the artist. That everything is personal and tied to the artist’s emotions and inner life.

It’s such a narrow point of view to approach art with. Especially since many artists write about how and why they make things the way they do. You can approach things with your own critical reasoning or just read! What they wrote! About their art!

I’m glad this post has resonated, and a lot of people do get what I’m trying to say. It’s good, I’m glad they do.

We Who Have Been Raised by Tigers

my short story about past life & gender is out!!!! you can read it here!!!!!

Come see what happens when a queer trauma therapist with a family therapy degree decides to take a crack at superhero late YA.

Secondhand Origin Stories

An outsider with superheroic ambitions

A near-invincible teen with infamous powers

A prodigy with treasonous technology

A frail girl with a family legacy

A supervillian with mysterious motives

And a family fractured by secrets

Names in Their Blood

Ron runs his hand up and down her side, between cardigan and tank top, stalling for time as he struggles with where to begin. "...Just been a rough couple of months," he tries. "Yeah?" He takes a deep breath, letting his hands rest on her hips. "Yeah. My partner and me, we tangled with a zombie. I can still feel the fucking dialysis in my bones, but at least I got it over with quickly. Unlike my partner." [She] hisses in sympathy, her hand now resting on his neck. "Is he..." "Nah, not dead," Ron finishes for her. "But it was one hell of a close call." "Yikes," she says, and rubs at a taut muscle right next to his spine. "No wonder you're not up for getting chewed on again." Her fingers dig into a particularly tight and painful spot, and Ron lets his head loll back, groaning out with it. "Oh shit, right there." He holds his head crooked to one side most of the time, he's aware, what with the half-blind thing, but he always forgets to dig his fingers in and take care of the ensuing neck pain. Nat does it for him sometimes, but—well. "Hot," [she] remarks, pulling him back to the present, and Ron squints at her and snorts. At least she still thinks so. "Yeah," he continues, "there was a lot of chewing." He heaves a deep sigh, feeling it fill his lungs all the way down in a way that makes him think he's been breathing too shallowly, and dramatically sinks back into the couch. "I should've fucking figured that I can't just walk out of this normal. But, seriously? I can't even enjoy getting bit anymore?" "Can't have shit," [she] says. "Can't have shit," he agrees.