The human heart in conflict with itself … is worth writing about.– William Faulkner
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Charles Clough thinks you’re fucked. Just like him. Just like the rest of us.
At least that is what I gathered after my first meeting with him.
Does this truth make you a genius? Maybe. Maybe not. You might think you’re a genius, but genius requires years of systemic failure to master. There’s an art to failing, and right now, you’ve probably just skimmed the surface of what could be the tipping point of a life of debauched fuckery.
And you haven’t failed at any one particular thing. You’re not at the genius part. You haven’t made a mind-boggling self-discovery in what could be your obscure artist’s manifesto nor are you ready to write it.
And if you still insist on calling yourself a genius, shame on you. You’re suppose to croak first or something.
But to people who have had experiences like me, Charles Clough really is a genius. Not a genius in the way that a Mental Floss writer obsesses over the prolific series Game of Thrones, or the fact that it was incubated in the brain placenta of a schmuck-looking writer like George R.R. Martin (no stranger to failure, by the way). Charlie’s a success because he’s embracing his failures in the most genuinely genius way possible. He’s talking about them.
I think it is a brave and noble act to own up to your fuck-ups, especially when you’ve reached the level that Charles Clough has. I met Charlie at his studio in the Roycroft Institute in East Aurora, NY recently and it was my first time visiting the campus. I was there to participate in his Clufffalo painting workshop, open to the public. I was also interested in taking a look at his extensive volume of books (he has his own library in the attic there, a great resource for area artists).
He’s turning his studio into a destination for art lovers on-stay in Buffalo and for local residents who want to explore more of their creative sides. You don’t have to be a genius to do that. There’s no pressure to be the next big artist. Pull up a chair and talk to Charlie about his big finger painting technique or his process of video documentation like I did. He’s open to learning something new from you as much as he is in teaching you how to become a better artist.
Two things I learned about him right off the bat: He is a human, and his profanities fly under the radar like a drunk grandma passed out in a corner of a reception hall, post Cha Cha Slide. I was pretty sold on the idea that we would get along just fine. And we did.
Before I arrived, we had corresponded through email briefly and I remember him telling me that I could call him Charlie like everybody else does. I felt uncomfortable at first doing that; this was a man who had his work incorporated in over 70 museum collections. He was an important part of shaping the counter art revolution during the 1970s and the formation of Hallwalls Contemporary Arts Center in Buffalo, NY. Charlie sounded too informal, like Charlie’s Angels. Like a pal on the street you go grab a hot dog with. But I had a feeling that’s how most of the people that matter to him feel when they are hanging around him.
I felt comfortable enough to tell Charlie that I was a journalist, but jokingly said I couldn’t keep my mouth shut (I didn’t learn I had A.D.H.D. until a year or so ago, which is why I have trouble adjusting to certain environments, why I have to work harder at focus than most, and why certain social norms or work situations are difficult for me to master as someone who prefers holistic healing over prescription medication). This is probably also why I chose a secluded writer’s life, I have a voice (and I take breaks when necessary to collect myself, I learn to work with my issues against distraction, and I own my quirks).
Journalism is also advocacy, and it comes at a cost. That’s why I try to make it harder for people to find me online (not sure if I’ve succeeded at that or not, but according to Charlie, I shouldn’t worry about the wrong people finding me online, anyway. This is why he is cool. Since our meeting, I definitely haven’t stopped using social media, but still I am at a constant tug of war with the tool and probably always will be). I’m not from the Walter Cronkite Journalism School of Thought. I’m from the Alt-View School of Thought.
Good, probably bad? It sure as hell doesn’t make me an unreliable narrator.
In between newspaper writing, I blogged for several years. You develop an audience blogging by maintaining a strong point of view about things you love and know well. You can’t be afraid to enter the line of fire, either. In order to become an influencer, you have to sacrifice yourself a little, just like a leader has to be able to take as much criticism as they dish out. You have to be honest with yourself, and I think in my writing career, I’ve reached that point. It just took some time to get there. In short, I’ve been humbled.
I fucked up a few times, I admit it. And I keep going. Just like Charlie.
The business of art, and even writing, is not all rainbows and patty cakes. It’s more business than art if you want to succeed at it. Relevant anecdote: I once posted a meme that said, “Buy My Art Before I’m Dead” on my photography page on Facebook a few years back. It circulated around the Internet for about a month or two. I received weird messages from random people across the country telling me to take the post down because it was doing an injustice to artists everywhere.
Believe it or not, these strangers said, there are artists in the world that don’t want to make art for profit. No shit, I thought at the time, I’m not one of them. I’m struggling and not okay with it. It doesn’t make me any less of an artist. There’s a give and take in the process of creation with this (sometimes you can follow your own rules, but mostly you can’t, and if the project is right, the work is fulfilling). I also got feedback on the flip side; people thanked me for sharing the meme, stating that it is a conversation people needed to start having in their arts communities and communities lacking support.
I didn’t respond to any of the messages, but I read them all. I understood both sides. But guess what? The person always writing on others needs support, too. And I don’t mean monetary. There’s that give and take I’m talking about. It’s not selfishness; it’s empathy.
Did I sell any photography or writing services from doing that? No. But I gained something much more valuable. Genius, I realized, doesn’t take 30,000 Instagram followers or a rich mom and dad. It doesn’t take a degree, either. That might sound crass, but I mean it in terms of the humanistic essence of what it means to struggle. You can build a community, a business, and you don’t have to be a genius to do it. You can fail and fail again, so as long as you allow room for failure and, with each passing fuck up, deposit more faith over fear into the equation. In short, genius is bursting at the seams with faith, like a pillow you keep stuffing with feathers.
But don’t be mistaken: fear will always be there, somewhere. Shake its hand, hug it, let it linger.
One day you’re not going to have anymore room, but guess what? At some point you’ll feel full, or you’ll make the room. You’ll feel fulfilled with something you’ve been working on, giving your whole self, life, patience to. And you’ll either seal it up or keep hacking away, discovering the parts of yourself you like the most and the parts you could do without. You’ll find closure in that completeness.
And you know what else? Genius is also made of humility. Humility in anything, means having developed the discipline of that beautiful thing called patience, and these two things are a huge part of what attracts the right clients or audience to your work.
You can still be a jittery, bug-eyed coffee shop writer on the verge of a mental breakdown while you go about composing your first commissioned piece, or a photographer fumbling around with how to operate the video function on your camera for the first time for a project. You don’t need to own a studio to paint. You don’t even need to own a paint brush to paint.
Nerves happen. Life happens. Shit happens, especially when you’re starting out.
And even when you’re not, you can’t avoid it, so don’t run. Keep hacking away.
We learn the most from our failures, so don’t forget that at one point you were a beginner. At one point, you failed hard.
Highly successful vlogger Casey Neistat says that we learn more from our failures, the hardest times of our lives (9:38):
This might be a given to some, but you’d be surprised how many people are still beating themselves up over something they did ten or fifteen years ago that altered their career ::raises hand:::. I’m not an exception. I was placed between “getting ahead” and “ethical decision.” I chose the ethical route. So, maybe not the biggest fuck-up after all?
Charlie, during our brief encounter, taught me that success isn’t an archetype. Society holds artists, people, to unrealistic markers we use to measure success, and if we don’t reach them, we’ve missed out. We’re capoot. We’re old news. We’re done for. Why isn’t failure one of those markers? You’re making it by simply doing it. You haven’t given up.
You’re not doing busy work; you’re keeping busy DOIN’ WORK. YOUR DAMN THING.
And I’m not excluding 9-5 job holders from this conversation. Are you a genius marketing guru? DO THE DAMN THING. Do you paint houses like a boss? GO HARD IN THE PAINT, MY FRIEND. Are you reinvigorating your career after a long hiatus? SPARKLE ON, SISTER. Did you try opening a food truck or catering business and go back to your 9-5 after you failed at your first attempt? Remember this, you don’t have to be a lion to rule the den:
The freedom to fail and pick up where you left off–isn’t that the real American dream? After maintaining a beat writing on business, entrepreneurship, and people following their dreams for the past two years in Buffalo, this is one thing I know and trust, so ease up and trust yourself a little, eh? You got this.
𝓙𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓬𝓪 XoXo