My wife feels sorry for me that I’m not famous. I feel sad when she expresses this, there’s nothing I can do about it. I know there are ways to keep trying to get the world to notice me, more and more now with YouTube et al, but I find it kind of crass and desperate. Why should the world care about me more than I care about the world? Actually, that’s a meaningless sentence. Of course, I care about the world, the one I live in, raise my children in, walk my dog in. The world I am not so sure I care about is the world I thought would be the focus of meaning for me: acknowledgement, even adulation, by Important Cultural Guardians, i.e. The New York Times or their ilk. I think the search for fame has only gotten worse in our culture since I first encountered it in the 1970s. Then my idea was to shrink the world down to a “counter culture” (and I did mean culture, specifically “underground” film) and within that world eek out a living (probably academically) while producing edgy small non-commercial works that the occasional museum would edify with a retrospective, preferably a “living artist” retrospective.
Somewhere along the line I lost that alternative vision of culture and even for many years escaped the sharp pangs of hunger for fame. Then, late in my life, as a by-product of the questionable mantra “Follow your bliss” it struck me again like a virus lurking in your cells then a virulent outbreak seemingly out of nowhere. The Fame Crave hit with it’s usual trappings of innocence and its lies. One of its lies is that, if you do your “homework” and rise above the crowd (“A student”) you will find your way to the doorway to fame which will, of course, open for you. It’s a bit like trying to get into an Ivy League college. There might have been a time (was there really?) when being an A student could get you in, but now you have to have aced the SATs, 4.0 average, athletics, extracurriculars and it would help if you were a minority. I don’t know if the world of cultural fame was ever easy to get into, I doubt that it was. I think back when Raymond Carver was writing short stories, I’m guessing less people wanted to be writers and artists than they want to be today. There were many more careers (and money) that attracted people in the 1950s and early 60s. It was only after the “creativity revolution” inherent in the drug culture (one get high and thinks one is an artist) that many people began imagining they would make their livings not only from writing, painting, etc, but also from bodywork, performance art, and unusual types of therapy not even close to being covered by any insurance program. This wasn’t exactly identical to the search for fame but it certainly was influenced by the Follow Your Bliss dictum of Joseph Campbell/Robert Bly. Following your inner guide was a little bit of fame (glamour) that you could get your hands on. You could be a life artist, and many were, many of the same ones now looking around with a stunned look on their faces with no 401K, no health insurance, and the recession slashing away at their livelihoods as they realize their creatively imagined services are technically in the luxury category.
Personally, I wanted to address the issue of personal creativity and not only the internal desire for fame (like a chronic addiction, one can learn to live with it), but the way the “world” looks on creative people who get no money or little money from their art. My wife’s interest in quilting, plus my own now frequent trips to Michael’s Arts and Crafts, has shown me there is a world, largely female, that makes all kinds of things, mostly for very little income and almost zero chance at fame. There are also microcosms, like wildlife art, Southwestern art, where one can achieve a degree of fame and money but one is “locked out” of higher culture which has no interest in or way to critique these microcosms. So when Philip Roth calls Nora Roberts an “entertainer” (she’s a romance novelist, very successful) he’s invoking the privilege that being recognized by the highest level of gate-keeping (i.e. The New York Times). She could very well make more money than he. One can think of other writers, Stephen King, John Iriving, and Leon Uris who though popular are effectively “locked out” of the highest approval levels by the accusation of being mere entertainers. Supporting this way of thinking is a vast network of college English departments, many staffed by sophisticated writers with very little acclaim to show for it, who set standards for high art and teach them to the next generation of wannabes, many of whom will go on to teach English and write “on the side” their challenging, cutting edge novels.
Can one cure oneself of the claim to fame, intervene on oneself so to speak or is it a life sentence like the herpes virus that cannot actually be cured but can go silent for years?
part II
what if, what if I could just “let go” of this fantasy that my creative endeavors would EVER amount to more than they amount to now which is people who know me know that I am creative and kinda feel sorry for me (LOL) that I never “made it.” what if that was in the end, the “I coulda been a contender” thing for me, I coulda been, if if if… but in the end wasn’t. just a guy who near the end of his life (god willing not soon) did all kinds of nutty shit like write a novel, paint, and make masks. what’s the difference between me and say Philip Roth, well, plenty. on his deathbed (no matter what a schmuck he was and I don’t know maybe he’s a great guy) he could look over and see all these books and sure he can say (to his grandchild) “you’re what matters,” but we know once in a while he’s looking over there at the shelf of books and saying “I did something. I was someone. I have a legacy.” but so few people have a legacy like this, creatively speaking anyway. and there’s the stories (hundreds plus) of artists considered important AFTER their deaths. van gogh is the poster child. now his works command millions of dollars but in his lifetime he struggled, probably thought most of the time he should have been a cobbler or a dentist. except for the schizo stuff, but there’s plenty of schizo dentists. so in the end, the bitch fame is not a nice lady. even when she deems you worthy many can’t handle it… ever… not that they (Brittany spears) would trade it for not having an intimate relationship with the bitch goddess, but still… it’s not easy. the “happy” people are the ones who don’t care at all, let’s just call them the Christians for shorthand, the ones that believe their reward is in the next life and all you have to do is slog through this one and get to your (deathbed) as intact as possible with as many (loving) people around you as you can gather. can I “act as if” as they say in the 12 step programs? I don’t know.
