[this is my imaginary discussion over sunday brunch (because it’s sunday and it’s brunchtime) about these things with mills]

mills:

We say: “I want to be a writer,” or “I want to be a photographer”; or we say: “I want to take interesting photographs,” or “I want to write interestingly,” or “I want to be interesting.” This is itself interesting. What do we really want when we want such things? [please, go on]

I am trying to learn to take interesting or beautiful or otherwise worthwhile photographs [“do, or do not. there is no try.” you know who said that? Yoda said that and he’s like 900 years old, much smarter than you or i.] (worthwhile meaning to me that they contribute to someone’s sense of reality or life, at any scale: the trivial, the profound, in between; they might be worthwhile in subject, in composition, in meaning, or in some technical aspect). [i would agree. said aspects are like legs on a table: remove one dynamic and the table fails to provide even a function beyond something that kids race hotwheels down, aka: philistines]

I am learning very slowly, despite kind advice from many talented acquaintances and substantial family history in photography. Today I drove around looking for things to shoot and, being what S. Stratodrive calls a ‘new jack,’ [sometimes it’s a dismissive insult, other times it’s just tough love.] had as a discretionary mechanism only (1) what has seemed interesting in other, already-taken photographs [well, the religious terminus of this would be that it’s all the work of god and we’re just celebrating his creation, and the scientifical terminus would be that whence the big bang: all can be mathmatically determined and extrapolated. either way, no individual can truly create anything “new”] and (2) the mildest and most banal internal sensibilities. [so allow it, one must rage against the aforementioned. what the hell else do we have to do here anyway?]

The immediate question: why am I trying to do this? If I do not already have something interesting to offer, why am I trying to learn how to offer something interesting? [religiously or scientifically, we’re only here for a short duration. best to smell every rose (and pick some to give to others) on the path because once you’re dead you’re little different than a library full of books that burned to the ground…unless you left a record of your life elsewhere, and in many different formats, covering as many different guilds that might outlive] Am I not leading the horse with the cart, so to speak? The beginning of creative efforts is always strange in this way: before we can express something, we must sense that there is something we should express, something not otherwise explored; or is this too serious? [yeah, it borders on morbid self attention. that’s from taxi driver.] Might we not simply have fun? [goddamn, that’s all it is. even those that write about depression do so with the adroit skill of a whimsical pan.]

I am reminded of trying to write while in high school: perhaps I didn’t feel a compulsory or innate urge to say things; perhaps I merely wanted to write (to “be a writer”!) and selected things for the purpose; it is inevitable in such circumstances that one’s writing will be contrived, phony, pretentious (of course, mine remains so, but for other reasons now). [this is where i shake my head at you and flag down the waitron for another mimosa]

As a novice photographer I resort to the cheaper tricks of the form: massive Photoshop edits for color and composition, the exploitation of my subjects for the sake of the pictures, and so on. This seems comparable to me to the use of a thesaurus [aaaaahahhahhaaha oh my god that thesaurus thing is the best thing i’ve heard in a long while when it comes to photoshop] or the insistence on writing about the themes that automatically resonate with everyone whether or not your treatment is any good. [consider yourself an “outsider artist” then, man. there is no section of 33rd degree freemason-esque photographers or writers or whathaveyou. when someone who takes photographs well sees the work of someone who might not be as technically accomplished, the first thing that filters the work is “does this person have ‘the eye’”. if yes: then comes the selfish umbrage of what they could have done better. in art school, we called this a “critique”.]

It is worth wondering what motivates one’s creativity, as the decision to pursue creativity professionally likely entails substantial material privation: if it is not compulsion but desire, not need but want, it is perhaps preferable to secure an ordinary job and make a hobby of your efforts. It worked for Kafka, after all. [oh damn, mills. that is the most divisive and underhanded slam against so-called professionals and so-called hobbyists i have ever heard. (at this point i high-five you over plates of half-eaten croque monsieur and eggs florentine).]

I had a musicology professor who said that when he didn’t play the cello for a few hours each day, he felt unwashed; short of that sort of need, what will sustain you when you are hungry and no one wishes to date you in your dull poverty? [don’t need dates when your trade is your mistress and formal lover] When I heard him describe his addiction, I realized that dilettantism is preferable to falsified compulsion for me. Indeed, I wish we were more comfortable with the idea of craft rather than art, that there was a cultural sphere for semi-serious art. Is that the Internet? [i think you’re overthinking and possibly romanticizing “compulsious efforts” here (that’s a made-up word and it’s neo-linguistics, i know. schizophrenics do it constantly and much of the progress of language can be attributed to old-world birthrite kings and rulers that were in need of haldol). see, there are homeless schizophrenics that poop on stoops with worlds behind their actions and deeds. forgive me if i’m wrong here, but i think that humans are rampant creatures fighting tooth and nail to etch themselves on something that might outlast their stay.]

It is more fun, more amusing, when one accepts the inauthenticity of oneself: a phony photographer trying to be interesting without any damn reason is more tolerable when he can laugh at himself, I hope [whatever you gotta tell yrself, but i personally think you should just shake it off and direct your importance to where your entire fleshsack hones in upon, because maybe you’ll come across something above you someday. but that’s not how art works. art makes the viewer and the artist and the medium and the subjectmatter equal. like legs on a table that stands for the aspects to come together and exist and meet over brunch]; and the same should be true for a phony writer. It is all play, after all; perhaps, then, a disclaimer is in order: please know that the author of this site is comfortable with laughter.

[with that, we’ve been here long enough that the waitron tells me the kitchen has moved on to the dinner menu. if it’s ok with you, i’ll have the chateaubriand and swiss chard and white beans with a glass of bandol. i’m going out for smoke here first though. when i get back i wanna hear your thoughts on stephen crane. oh yeah, and i shouldn’t have downed those last two mimosas so quickly.]