Suffering for Art
An unusual thing has been happening to me lately: things seem to be working out. All those things that I’ve been waiting to fall into place are lining up like gears in a Swiss watch. Lucky coincidences and happy develops lurk around every corner. It’s like I’ve won the karma lottery.
The irony, though, is that sometimes it seems harder to accept the good stuff than the bad.
Somewhere along the line, I learned to be suspicious of happiness. I think I learned this from my mother, but I can’t put my finger on it exactly. There was some sort of hint in there that being happy would make God angry somehow… I guess like laughing too loud in class makes the teacher call on you to answer the really hard question.
I had always assumed that this was a worldview unique to my family, but it seems like it might be a bit more common than I imagined. I was at a picnic last summer and one person asked another how his summer had been. He said the first half had been horrible, but the second half was going really well. There was a pause as we all glanced around to each other, wondering who would ask it… who would actually ask the question we were all thinking: what happened in the first half?
Like rubberneckers at an accident or my mother whispering about which neighbour just got what disease, to a person we were more curious about the bad bits than the happy ones. And it isn’t just that no one cares about your great summer. There is something about suffering that seems to elevate everything in popular estimation. If a movie is dark and filled with suffering people, it is “art.” Someone sings about angst and depression, they become soulful.
I don’t think it’s just me. I think there is something deep-down that seems to draw us in. It’s like Indigo Girls sing, “darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable, and lightness has a call that’s hard to hear.” It's almost like we are addicted to our own misery.
So the question is: can I actually let myself be happy? I’m not talking about that kind of shallow happiness promoted in TV ads - that sort of "busy" happiness with the plastered on smile and the slightly anxious look in the eyes. I’ve met people like that, and you aren’t fooling anyone. I mean the kind of happiness that understands the difference between striving and struggling; between pain and suffering. That realizes things can be perfectly imperfect and sees obstacles as a fun challenge... or at least potentially fun.
I know it’s not something my parents taught me about and it’s not a custom of my people, but I am willing to give this thing a shot. I know it’s tremendously risky. I am venturing into uncharted territory. Who knows what sorts of horrible wonderful things I will receive? Who knows what sorts of good times I will have to bear? But for you, kind reader, I am willing to go into that terrifying land of happiness, by myself, unguarded, with only my wits and the constant warnings of my mother’s voice to keep me from pure, unbearable joy. This is the sort of suffering I am willing to endure for my art.
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