Van Gogh painted for a mere 9 years and yet close to the end of his life, he averaged 24 paintings a month and produced close to the same number of paintings as contemporary artists who worked for decades longer. All while writing scores of letters, dealing with health issues, and moving residences multiple times. He only ever sold one painting. The person who bought it? Just the sort of person an artist wants to be recognized by—the sister of a close friend, who was also a painter (note the sarcasm).

Futility has been on my mind. It’s a concept that streaks its grubby fingers over everything we do, from our single greatest moment to the mundane everyday that makes us who we are. Nothing turns out perfectly. “No good deed goes unpunished”, the saying goes. Even when we give something our best, even when we are objectively better than a lot of other artists, we don’t get the return we want on our investment of time and heart and heartache.

Artists probably understand futility better than anyone, except doctors, maybe. (They save people all the time and then people just keep on dying!)

I recently read Nation, by Sir Terry Pratchett. That’s an honest book, if there ever was one. My hat goes off to the man who can wrestle, across the page, with raw existential crisis after crisis, and come out at the end with a heartwarming story that moves the reader out of a numb state of existence to, hopefully, a moment of truth. What that truth is will be different for different people, not because truth is fluid, but because we are all on a spectrum of unaware to aware of the one true truth. Some people just stop before they reach the end.

But even the person who presses on to really, deep-in-their-bones know why they exist in the first place will still wake up with questions. I used to think the world needed to have tidy answers for everything to work like it should. I used to fit God in a box. But… who am I? Nothing. I might be gone tomorrow… or tonight. Would anyone on this seemingly everyplace and all-knowing internet feel my absence? Not in the least. How long did it take for someone to find Van Gogh in that field?

Every artist wants to be a Van Gogh. If we go unappreciated in our lifetime, perhaps we cling to the fragment of hope known as POSTHUMOUS. “One day, people might cherish my work. One day, they might name my name among those who were great. Even if I’m not here to see it, perhaps one day I’ll accomplish the pinnacle of my ambitions as an artist.”

I guess that would be nice.

But that’s not what we’re working towards when we…

Say no to social engagements so we can get good rest, have a clear mind, and write the next day

Or

Give up our fitness goals/physical health because all we feel like doing is sitting in front of a computer ALL THE TIME

Or

Miss a family event

Or

Have no real friends

Or

Face rejection and an inferiority complex on social media but show up and engage there anyway in order to appear relevant and attract a following

Or

Compromise family life in order to reach a deadline… and countless other sacrifices!

If we’re prepared to give up so much, what are we expecting to receive in return?

This is the point where well-meaning friends chime in with advice such as, “Write for the love of writing” and “Do what makes you happy”. This is not to gainsay that advice. You might be the only person who can really appreciate the kind of art you produce and the dedication it requires. There’s a place for inhabiting your areas of strength and enjoying the fruits of your labors. But the questions remain.

If we have no return on our painstaking labors, then why are we doing art in the first place? Why not do any other of a myriad of recreational activities?

This circles back to identity and those tough, existential questions people don’t like to face up with. We artists talk about something driving us to create. What is it? It doesn’t come from us. It acts on us, compelling us to run the gauntlet of self-immolation. I’ll just leave you with that question hanging. It’s a good one.

Something that has been a salve to me, in the most unexpected of moments, is an encounter with a Cypress Vine. I planted some this spring. They are among the first non-edible plants I’ve attempted to nurture, and they’re doing well! I’m not a very good gardener, so I’m sure its survival was the plant’s accomplishment, not mine. I do my best, and part of that is watering each evening or morning, sometimes both. South Carolina has intense summer heat!

One day, while watering these long, fern-like plants that are spilling over my balcony, I saw a single flower bud preparing to bloom. The next morning, I excitedly went up to investigate. Sure enough, a pink, five-petaled blossom had opened. Perfection. I was looking forward to enjoying the profusion of blossoms I was sure would soon cover the plant’s fronds. But the next day, the flower had died back, wilting away to nothing. I thought I’d killed it. Perhaps I’d neglected to water it enough, and the sun had dried it out.

The next morning, I watered it thoroughly. A few more blossoms were blooming, but by the next day they’d gone too. Today, the vine was covered with handfuls of blooms, and I just took a moment longer than usual to enjoy them. Because I’ve figured out the secret of the Cypress Vine—it’s here today, and gone tomorrow. The consummate purpose of each individual flower is to bloom one single day. And it’s good… it’s enough. Everyone wants to be a Van Gogh, but I’m wondering if I can be content being something like my pretty little vines.