Hiding

I have been doing most of my writing recently in secret, the way things used to be done before algorithms ruled our lives. I only show unfinished pieces to a small group of writing friends that I trust. I am not saying everyone should function this way or that there is anything wrong with showing imperfect work. I am inspired by imperfect work. It reminds me that we aren’t here on this earth to be robots. It’s just that I find pleasure in hiding sometimes. I straddle a line between wanting to be seen and wanting to be invisible. I don’t think I’m alone in this. The problem is, we now exist in a world that doesn’t believe you are a real artist unless you are visible at all times which is completely antithetical to creating your best work. Hiding gets a bad reputation. It is always branded as a lack of courage rather than a method that can sometimes exist to preserve both your sanity and integrity.

A lot of my violin students dislike practicing. This isn’t news to anyone who has taught music for a living. I was the freak 8 year-old that loved it. I did not have to be pestered to get out my violin and learn my Suzuki songs. The more advanced I got, the more I ran into the mental hurdles that come with honing difficult music and plateauing, but I never hated it enough to stop playing, even after a graduate degree left me injured and in the middle of an existential crisis.

I’d be lying if I said I always want to pick up my violin and work on something. That’s not how anything works. Nobody always wants to do something that requires a lot of mental, emotional, and physical effort. It’s depleting. But there is something delicious about quietly whittling away at a piece in an empty house where there are no cameras or microphones or stages. No one is listening but the dog who is perched at the top of the couch. You’re not thinking about the money you will get so you can go to the grocery store or pay your student loans. You’re just existing in the art you are making, asking what it wants.