Understanding Authentic Art in a Digital Age of Augmented Perfection
I am an artist. I am just one in the ocean of many. I am an artist. I try to be funny, and mellow, and charming, and rough, but most of all I try to be genuine. In an ocean of people so alike but so different, my greatest powers are my voice, far from perfect but unapologetically mine, my lyrics painstakingly scribbled in an old pink notebook at ungodly hours in the early morning, and my message- the thoughts, swimming in my brain that other people will feel in their brains too, as long as I am my true self.
Or so I thought.
I’m also part of a generation that grew up learning how to poke at a screen before we learned to talk. We know at least twenty thousand different ways to consume virtually anything in existence at any given moment. Our interests have been saturated, tossed in a blender and force-fed to us, and boy do we love it. Our attention spans have never been worn so thin, our self-images have been warped into something so unrecognizable that we sit for hours in disassociation, and yet, we are the ‘me generation.’ Underneath it all, we are an odd group that is pointedly individualistic, loud and unabashedly present, but sometimes even we don’t see it. Finding a place in this world is the greatest challenge for the modern-day artist.
The biggest problem with making art in the age of the internet is being seen. The culprit is the infamous algorithm that controls everything from your For You Page to the ads you get bombarded with on YouTube videos. This system is now larger than us. These algorithms only give you exposure if you post consistently and if these consistent posts are frequently engaged with, which in itself is a paradox.
Under the algorithm, the phrase ‘quality over quantity’ is thrown out the window. If you are required to post consistently, your work will not only lack quality but also will be ingenuine. Many artists outright beg people to not unfollow them while they rush to finish a piece they resent. As an artist, you should be allowed to work in peace, on pieces you truly love. You should not have to participate daily in trendy challenges to be seen. One shouldn’t have to change your art style or write about something you aren’t provoked by for exposure. The time, effort and originality put into your art should be valued and admired, not bashed or resented. After all, some of the best art is based on concepts that are entirely original and often take time to fully understand. The problem is that there are a million things that people would rather be looking at than wait for you to finish something, or analyze your piece when they could be enjoying something with a lesser meaning but a flashier palette or a catchier beat. Your attention is valuable and artists are forced against the laws of their craft to fight for it.
The best art always has a message. An artist’s most authentic form of expression and opinion should be most evident in their art. However, following the paradoxical rule that consistency and engagement lead to exposure, many who are writing films or songs or novels, mediums that take longer to create and consume, are doing what the internet loves most: sharing their opinions on virtually everything that happens on our planet, non-stop. However, you as a person only have so much insight to offer at any given point in your life. If you’ve already said everything you wanted to say about the world on Twitter, why should you and I watch your film? Why should we listen to your song? I already feel like I have a decently nuanced understanding of what you want to tell me so why should I waste my time?
Whatever artists do, there is a hefty majority that is never seen and never heard.
In fact, I could be one of them. I’m writing a little EP at the moment and I should be finished producing it in a year or two called “The Antifilmaker,” named as such because contrary to Hollywood and unsurprisingly, Instagram, I don’t believe my life is movie-worthy, but I’m narrating it in song anyway. It has been a journey of self-discovery and vulnerability and I appreciate every minute of writing it. While writing songs, I used to catch myself being a sensationalist of my own life. I romanticized my sadness and satirized my happiness because I wanted to sound intelligent. I wanted to sound like I was interesting and that I have lived through more than I actually had. Even though I felt disconnected from my own writing, “The movie of my life is boring,” I thought. “No one would watch it.”
Then, I remembered just how many people around me feel the exact same about their lives. They post pictures of themselves with their friends, smiling too wide under a sky that’s too blue, or the hazy afternoon sun illuminating the ice cubes floating in their immaculately made drinks. They don’t post the routine walk to school, the late hours spent doing work, or the huge argument with the same group of friends depicted in the glorious photo, but those things happened too. They got out of bed the same way you did, brushed their teeth the same way you did, sat in the cramped bus, or endured the car ride the same way that you did. The movie of my life is not boring. It’s real. I did end up writing about the argument, the hopelessness of school and romanticization itself. Sure, this small collection of songs won’t change the world, but maybe I was wrong at the beginning of this essay. Maybe raw authenticity will break the mask of pretenses the world painted for you and reach you after all. Maybe it won’t. Either way, it is the greatest power I have.
Works cited:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMJAftYCMw8
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpp1w06lN8s&list=PLE7dmBfAOkTqVFNHc3uilyPJZ8pbvO4p4&index=33