I have no choice but to be an artist. When the art doesn’t come, I make art out of the lack of art. That right there seems to be a good definition of creativity – to make something out of nothing. To express depressed expression. Eh? Eh?
In writing, I have to feel like I am speaking to someone, at least a little – and when you feel like the world has turned its back on you – or rather, you have turned your back on the world – you feel like no one is there listening, so thusly, it makes it difficult to write – to
communicate. You isolate, or become more of an “internal” person.
That’s how I feel about it, anyway. You don’t. or I suppose, in my opinion, shouldn’t be writing if not to communicate – and that is a two-way street. Art can indeed exist as a product of individual expression, with no direct intent to share, but it is usually created as a reaction to something in the world, or internal world – the mind.
With that, it becomes a certain statement, whether the creator
realizes or intends it to be such.
With written or spoken word, it’s always a head-rush to be able
to turn a notion or idea on its head a bit. It is always interesting
when I whip something clever together, and people think that I have
taken or quoted it from somewhere else – assuming from a bigger piece
of media, like a song or a movie. This is because, all I see from
other young people, or the majority anyway, is this type of ripping
and quoting from other major-marketed sources. Worst yet, to us
literary types, often they do not even attribute the original source;
song lyrics sitting on a page – do they belong to them? What do they
mean in this content? The art of the word, or true individual
communication is lost, man. I want your unique thoughts to get in my
brain. Let me think about you for awhile, and try to figure it out,
not read a carbon copy of something else. With that, I’ll return the
favor. Give me an intellectual challenge, and I will give you an aural
orgasm. Let’s talk.
I enjoy just letting a’ rip onstage or in front of the camera, or a
microphone and rambling a string of thoughts together into a barb-wire
of rusty wit and fragmented opinion. In the case of using a more
intricate medium to communicate something, film has always been my
love interest; the undying crush I could never seem to properly ask
out on a date – the girl next door that I just couldn’t get to third
base with. The one that got way. Sure, we might’ve hooked up a couple
of times, in the form of my acting in a few things, or taking some
classes, watching and analyzing movies in papers, shooting music
videos, or drooling on the computer keyboard after having fallen
asleep mid-editing session – but created a start-finish
dyed-in–the-wool film? Not yet. Nothing I’d be proud to fling up on
an art house screen, anyway.
The resources of community television, or cable access, have
been something of a crutch in recent years, in that, while it remains
our greatest alley in getting projects off the ground, and helped us
launch our greatest achievements, in the form of said videos, and our
film festival, EXPERIMENTALLY ILL, it also has kept us sleeping
soundly in the less-than-four-star bed of “Access” – of which has
given us our whole world, in terms of friends, coworkers, and a great
jumping-off point for more. Despite the sandbox of toys Community
Media stations provide, a whole lotta cherry pickin’ must be done in
order to find a large sect of people actually willing to create
something different. I’ve been fortunate to know a few of those types,
and we took those folks and their short films on a local ride through
a few Boston-area indie fim theaters with Experimentally ILL –
embracing the DIY ethic and a bit of punk-rock aesthetic, to the tune
of some sweet press and audience praise. On paper, I am still a
staunch advocate of Public Access Television itself, in George C.
Stoney and Red Burns’ original “Hey, how’s it going’?”
set-up-a-TV-on-a-street-corner concept – but Michael The Arch Angel’s
gotta spread his wings and try to fly sometime.
It’s important for me to not over-think things too much, and just splatter some art up on the e-canvas here. Fortune favors the bold.
Thanks for reading this.
Written by MIKE PHELAN O’TOOLE.
Boston, MA, USA.