Being an "artist" (we're just skipping right over
the pretentiousness of the phrase) is hard stuff. Artist, to make art, to
express oneself through any given medium etc. It's a weird thing that so many
of the great artists had serious issues in life.
Jim Morrison expressed himself through music, specifically
poetry visa-vi singing lyrics. As his fame increased, as they gained more and
more spectators, he became increasingly hushed, introverted, and in many ways
unstable.
Edgar Allan Poe expressed himself through words, that is,
the English language visa-vi stories and poetry. He was ransacked with personal
issues the entirety of his life, overcome with grief at his young wife's death,
likely a drunkard who died very alone and in mysterious circumstances.
Vincent van Gogh expressed himself through visuals, by way
of putting ink onto a canvas. The extent of his mental health problems is
debated, but at the least we know he cut off his ear because he thought it
would be endearing to a dear woman – so there’s that.
Ian Curtis, again, expressed himself through music,
specifically poetry by way of lyrics. We’ll get back to him.
So what came first, the chicken, or the egg? Are crazy
people just drawn to art? Is the entire field of expression based solely on the
musings of humans who don’t function properly within the world?
There’s a song by Joy Division called “Atrocity Exhibition”.
Here are a few select lines from it.
Asylums with doors
open wide,
Where people had paid
to see inside,
For entertainment they
watch his body twist,
Behind his eyes he
says, 'I still exist.'
This is the way, step
inside.
This is the way, step
inside...
“This is the way, step inside.” Joy Division’s song title
(and thematic elements) are taken from a “novel” by J.G. Ballard. Ballard’s
novel focuses on a protagonist with a constantly changing name who is having a
severe mental breakdown. The character is deeply affected by the advent of mass
media, and in fact spends much of the novel trying to recast public events in ways
that personally impact him.
So what makes being an artist hard?
Ian Curtis, the lead singer of Joy Division, is casting
himself as the mass media event. He’s describing a play, or (more accurately)
an exhibition, a museum piece for people to come and watch with popcorn in their
hands.
An atrocity exhibition.
Because people don’t listen to Joy Division to see the
beauty of Ian’s soul on display. Neither do people read Edgar Allan Poe to
understand the humane depths of his heart, or connect with Van Gogh’s
uncompromised sense of normality and realism.
We line up and we pay money to watch a body twist.
For Curtis, being an artist meant putting the darkness of
himself on display. Letting people line up and peer into your very soul and
whistle, saying “That’s pretty dark.” And some, most in fact, walk away and
nod, pretentiously aloof and unfeeling and thinking “I’m glad I’m nothing like
that.”
When in fact…
Some, though, embrace the exhibition. They see themselves in
the man twisting on the floor, screaming incoherent nonsense. Their very souls
tell them “This is you, if only a little.”
Curtis puts himself on display, invites people to come in
and watch, and then hopes they take his musings and personally connect with
him. Because this would mean that he’s not alone.
The pain of being an artist: searching for someone as fucked
up as yourself. And if you find them, trying to tell them “I know you know this
is what it’s like.”
Atrocity on exhibition.
