Why I am thankful for artistic failure

Why I am thankful for artistic failure

Posted on November 23rd, 2010 by Chris Matarazzo

My sons have been making construction paper turkeys in school with multicolored feathers that are labeled with the things for which they are thankful. So, here’s my one-feathered construction paper turkey: I’m thankful for artistic failure. Of course, if you have read any of my stuff before this, you will know that (1) “failure” is going to be qualified and that (2) I blame no one but myself for this failure.

The first thing people are going to think (and I would think the same thing, so no hard feelings) is that I am saying this to pretend I don’t lament my obscurity. Sometimes I wonder this about myself. But I don’t think it is so, in the end. I mean, I will consider taking whatever crumbs of artistic success the world is inclined to throw me, but I really do believe that I have become a better artist as a result of my “failures”.

First reason I’m thankful: The dreams of the young rarely match the dreams of the mature. Mine certainly do not.

A few years ago, aged 35 or so, I was loading out of a club at 3:00 in the morning, in the vicious January cold, fingers frozen to the handles of my drum cases, and I actually said aloud to myself: “This could have been my life. Talk about dodging a bullet.” At nineteen, I wanted to play the drums for a living. I would have played every night and, back then, for awhile, I almost did.

But at some point I went in other directions, following different interests: writing, composition, studying literature, etc. As much as I still love playing the drums for cash a few nights a month, I would be miserable now if it had become my full-time job. The older musician in me is more complex than the young drummer was and he needs more facets to his musical experience than just rhythm. (Could this be a reason why so many successful people are miserable and addicted to substances or narcissistic game-playing? — they achieved the thing they’d wanted as a kid but it isn’t what they need as an adult; yet, they feel they’d be insulting the generosity of the cosmos if they give it up?)

Second reason: As things turned out, I have the means to create polished, finished work, though I am far from rich. My father is a composer and orchestrator and my mother is a singer. The fact that they made a living in music all of their lives is incredible. But money and work were not always there and hard times were frequent. Consequently, music became a chore for them; I watched it happen. For me, free to define my musical life as I see fit, music is a flashlight in the dark; a breeze in the desert, not a daily grind.

At this point, I spend more time on my music than ever, and, as a guy with a day gig, I have some cash with which to fund my projects. I truly believe I would not have been as constantly inspired if music were my bread-and-butter. Less hours sweating in the clubs equals more hours in my little home studio. My dad used to tell me to keep music for myself — don’t make it a career. (Coleridge once gave similar advice to poets — don’t work in letters.) As a pre-teen Romantic dreamer I wouldn’t hear of this. A good thing, for me, that the flow of life guided me into following his advice.

Third reason: The hope of realizing success is still a motivation for me. It can’t hurt for a forty-two-year-old to have some of the same dreams he had as a teenager. I’m not going to lie; if Spielberg calls me tomorrow night to take over for a retiring John Williams, I’ll be munching free peanuts on a red-eye to LA within an hour, naked body scans notwithstanding. The kids will switch schools. My wife can stay home and eat bon-bons and sun herself on a toasty Californian veranda all day, if she wants. But the good thing is, now I’m a grown-up. I have some experience composing for film. I know what that life would entail and it fits my parameters for happiness.

So, it is a paradox, I guess: I’m shooting for a success I somehow am reluctant to achieve for fear it might put shackles on my creativity — yet I’d take it, given the right circumstances. Not being successful leaves me with the hope that one day I can still get there. But if it never happens, the carrot remains — round and round.

No amount of success is worth churning out art I don’t believe in. I know it sounds corny, but I really do feel that way. If the world decides it loves me, great, but I’m not going to write stuff I don’t believe in. Either way, I die a happy, productive artist — as long as I keep working. And I can honestly say that if my upcoming CD (humble, stealthy, casual reference/teaser/plug) were miraculously to do well and I were offered a deal to tour, I would turn it down in a blink. I’ve spent some time on the road; I have played to some big crowds. That’s not part of my dream anymore and I’m not going to allow the ghostly pull of an anachronistic teen longing force me into anything.

So you might gather by now that I do not consider myself an artistic failure. I’ve failed to be famous; I’ve failed to pay the bills with my drumsticks; I’ve failed to build a mansion out of musical or literary bricks. All of this was a result of my choices in life. But my success is marked by an ever-growing body of work that I believe in completely and by the fact that I carry the knowledge that I have done the best I can, even if that means I did less than I should have. I can live with that.

Ah, what the heck. PROJECT TIME! Grab your scissors and glue sticks. You get six feathers for your turkey. Tell me what things you are artistically/creatively thankful for. Here are mine:

1) My father’s example of melodic/harmonic “direction”

2) Respighi’s pristine orchestration/composition of “The Pines of Rome” (recommended interpretation)

3) Phil Collins and Chester Thompson’s drumming on the “In The Cage” medley

4) Every note Maurice Ravel ever wrote.

5) Neil Peart’s lyrics and drumming as a teen inspiration

6) John Steinbeck

There’s more, but you know how tight school budgets are and construction paper ain’t cheap . . .

Your turn. Let’s hear it.

CHRIS MATARAZZO’S ARTISTIC UNKNOWNS APPEARS EVERY TUESDAY

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Chris Matarazzo

Chris Matarazzo is a writer, composer, musician and teacher of literature and writing on the college and high school levels. His music can be heard on his recent release, Hats and Rabbits, which is currently available. Chris is also the composer of the score to the off-beat independent film Surrender Dorothy and he performs in the Philadelphia area with the King Richard Band. He's also a relatively prolific novelist, even if no one seems to care yet. His blog, also called Hats and Rabbits, is nice, too, if you get a chance...