Where is the art scene? Where does this world break and a world that previously existed in cracks in the pavement exist? By now we’ve crystalised these places, given them borders, rulers, constitutions and falls. The brief Paris, New York and Soho. And I’ve been there, looking for the hangovers and ruins. They’re there, framed and hung. It manages to all feel like a trap, a snare waiting for people like me and the people who could never come to terms with the world that they live in. This world even manages to give that conclusion to teenagers. And then I ask again, where is the art scene? I know artists, writers, philosophers, filmmakers and at some point they must have been in the same room. And there was no scene. Only the tired, lonely, insecure, hopeful and flawed people I could find in myself or at the next table or any table surrounded by people. And I have my anecdotes, my seconds of accidental wisdom, thoughts that should any of us make it would look very good in reflection of. But while I was there, I found nothing I had read about.
I haven’t been published long. I remember that it mattered immensely, a way to prove I had made some progress. I defined the idea of being a writer as simply a person who writes. I wrote many things and yet I didn’t feel myself becoming a writer. I told people I was writing and they accepted it quietly. But after a year I needed witnesses, I needed the reality of having words in public where people can hate them, like them and ignore them. Join the only rat race I thought necessary. And I did, a stray email in the inbox of an editor too busy making a literary journal I would not be invited into. Someone needing pieces to cover his obligations. I imagined him being somewhat relieved that a “writer” was sitting on his laptop waiting. And my piece was published, and it was an okay piece (I’m currently in the perfect time from it, I wouldn’t dare write the same but I can still manage to read it). And as it was published I was in Ireland with my grandparents and I sat and watched the news and the History channel. When I got back I was congratulated by parents and some friends were slightly impressed and then I set about the second piece. I didn’t want anything I had written before that was published. And it became part of my week. I am not much further beyond that point but I find wins and losses and carry on. There is no sign that I will make it or fail and yet it feels right. I hate it, love it and admire it abstractly. And I write and people I know see me do it in between doing course work and doing nothing on my phone for a few hours. And at no point did I become a writer and in a way I don’t think I ever will. Only to anyone who remembers me and never knew me. And that’s a sign that I’m doing what I need to.
The only thing I think worth writing about is what I am at any given moment. What things are for me, I can’t imagine what they are for other people. And I know there are no artists. The Philosopher I know is often more addicted to Mario Kart than his work, the filmmaker still sends me awful posts on Instagram and a writer and editor I knew now dresses in Edwardian clothing and shows you how to sit like Marlene Dietrich. And they’re all themselves despite their best efforts. And I stopped looking for the art scene, more filled with overpriced coffee and get-togethers around vague statements. In a way I now look through art, try and find something still and human that I have faith is there. And I still think positively about the future, one in which I write and maintain something of myself.