A Personal Note
on creation, fear, and searching for your artistic voice
For this writeup, I’ve decided to shift into something a little more personal. Not that writing about film and music isn’t personal, it very much is. However, there’s no question that art is under attack right now—from radioactive billionaire tech mutants to the onslaught of mass-generated AI slop— which means that many of us are struggling to stay afloat. There’s a growing sense of dread that, along with everything else going on in the world, threatens to overwhelm the idea of artistic connectivity. Sure, artists are everywhere and work is being created, shared, and appreciated all around the world right now. However, because we live in such an unprecedented age of information access, art as a general concept seems to have a hum of disposability around it; like a never-ending stream of digitized artifacts to scroll past while brushing our teeth or sitting on the toilet. Still, I do sense a resistance brewing; one that contends human frailty—not capitalism, streaming numbers, or generative prompts— is where meaning can thrive. However, human frailty isn’t sexy. Emphasizing mistakes, failures, difficult emotions, and allowing oneself to be seen, truly seen, as a flawed human being is simply not good optics. The algorithm will bury you. Mine as well just copy and paste like all the other sheep and call it a day.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my own artistic journey and the ways in which this has been expressed through writing about film and music. It is undoubtably something I’m passionate about, and I do believe advocating for the art that has moved me is extremely valuable, but what happens when my desire to create collides with an avoidance of said frailty? What happens when you begin to believe the voices growing louder…
You are a failure
No one cares about what you have to say
You have wasted too much time and can’t possibly do anything meaningful now
These are questions. Accusations. Intrusive thoughts. Declarations posed as thought experiments. They run deep, flow in circles, and run around doing backflips in the corners of your mind. Just keeping writing about art. This is your safe space. You have a certain ability to articulate your thoughts, so just stick with that. Case in point; originally this essay was about a recent trip to the record store. There’s objectively nothing wrong with that. I enjoy music and movies and want to share my discoveries with others, but I wonder how many of us writing critical analysis regularly are also blocked artists who have given up on our own creative pursuits. This thought has been gnawing at me lately. At first, I brush it aside. I’m still creative! I occasionally sketch, paint, and make music of my own. Most of the time, the art is hidden away in drawers or encased on multiple hard drives, but it’s not like I’m not engaging in creative acts!
Then the thoughts, phrased as questions, became more persistent. Almost like steel drums echoing inside a hermetically sealed room.
Sure, maybe you are an artist, but why are you hiding? What are you afraid of? Rejection? Failure? If art isn’t shared in some way, is it truly meaningful?
This obviously brings up a broader and more complex discussion about the nature of art/personal identity/community; and its one that has many different interpretations. Over the past year, I’ve been slowing working on a solo music project. Writing. Revising. Starting over. Feeling excited, if only to fall into various depressive phases shortly thereafter. The ebb and flow of creation, I suppose. My process has been long and agonizing, but also rewarding because it’s just been me, a laptop, three separate synthesizers, and the occasional drum machine. There are scattered lyrics. Chicken scratch scrawled on various notebooks. Shapes of songs. Arrangements that feel less structural and more like colors. Honestly, I struggle with the sound of my voice. There’s maybe two notes I am able to hit occassionally, but I’m refusing to throw up my hands in despair. Some of my favourite artists have unorthodox singing voices anyhow, so it’s not like I’m trying to be a pop sensation, but I would be lying if it hasn’t been an excruciating ordeal at times. Even so, there’s something beautiful about sitting with that discomfort without giving up completely.
I’ve decided to call the project Extinction Burst, which is a psychological term referring to a sudden and temporary increase in autonomic energy, followed by a decrease and eventual extinction of the behaviours or symptoms. This links back to my struggles with chronic illness over the past 6 years, which I won’t go into here, but for context, I have written about this topic in more detail here. Many of the sonic compositions that are emerging from these recording sessions have been akin to emotional encapsulations of the feelings I’ve been experiencing since emerging bleary-eyed from the worst years of my life. It’s a confusing mixture of elation, guilt, shame, fear, failure, and hope. Elation over being able to do things again and regaining a sense of normalcy. Guilt over seeing so many others still suffering while I improve. Shame over having years of my life ripped away. Fear over what might happen if I risk being vulnerable. Failure in that if I stop identifying with my chronic illness, I might be forced to redefine what my existence really means. Finally, hope planting a flag that says “I’m alive and maybe that’s enough”, or something in that ballpark.
Listen, my goal here isn’t some kind of somatic self-therapy session. I’m merely lurching, perhaps awkwardly, toward a place of vulnerability. Art matters. Our voices, no matter how out of tune, can resonate. Perhaps there are others out there like me; flailing and floundering in self-imposed exile. An artist writing about art who remains terrified of their own shadow. Extinction Burst is a step towards the umbra—the darkest shadow—and reclaiming these faintly perceptible pieces of myself. It’s a living, breathing organism. The music itself might not even be traditionally “good”, but does it matter? The point is to risk failure. To make mistakes. To embrace the cringe of exposure. To believe that you have something to offer. Isn’t this what we all crave, to feel less alone by connecting through art, whether by critique or making it ourselves? Ultimately, it’s our frailty, not markability, that sticks to the bones and makes us human.
Thank you for sharing this, Jericho🧡 your words always manage to resonate with whatever is going on up in my own head. Looking forward to keeping up with your Extinction Burst journey 🙌✨
Thanks for sharing! Keep lurching toward vulnerability 😉