“[T]here is no such thing as ‘art for art’s sake.’ […] For if the artist created only for himself and not for others, he would lock himself up somewhere and paint or write or play just for himself. But he does not do that. On the contrary, he invites us over, even insists that we come to hear him or to see his work; in a word, he expresses a need for our evaluation and/or appreciation […]” 

                                                                                                                                              —- Maulana Karenga[i]. (Creator of Kwanzaa)

                Recently, I released a new step of mine by video to a group of close friends and individuals who share a love of the hobby. Like babies who stuff their faces before ever learning the biological reason for eating, I shared my work with others solely because I felt an urge to do so: My tummy must have rumbled. However, after putting my creation out to the world I got nothing in return. Hours and hours went by without a single comment, positive or negative. I witnessed at least a dozen individuals simply bypass all I had done and go on with their lives as if the step never existed. As the petals fell off one by one, “they like it, they like it not,” I found it harder and harder to keep the waves of my mind calm with the troubles stirring underneath.

                I was jumping at every phone call, running at the sound of every email notification, and muttering invectives at the letdown of every one of these false alarms of a response. Clearly, the baby bottle must have been empty since I was not getting what I needed. I needed more than just to know that I spoke into the forest; I needed someone to hear! I needed to know that I made a sound, whether it was in step, in music, in writing, in whatever. In some form, I needed to know that I sent out a wave of thought that resonated with others, that coursed through another person’s being and rang true till they had no choice but to affirm that “yes, that was good.” I needed some validation of my own personal taste—after all, if I was sharing my work with others then I definitely liked it, at least somewhat.

                At first, the reality of this longing for appreciation (or a reason to be appreciated) was deeply discommoding, like a bad aftertaste when forced to take some medicine you don’t want. The truth of the matter was a blow to my pride because I was certain that I did not engage in my hobbies for such people-dependent reasons or just to stroke my ego. I thought of my pastimes as a deep tissue massage for the soul, going far below the surface and making me feel good from the inside out simply because I enjoyed the activity, regardless of others. This seeming discordance between why I shared and why I created in the first place was the worst masseuse, rubbing me in all the wrong ways.

                Getting up from the table of these thoughts, I sauntered through the World Wide Web, waiting for a response from someone about my step. I saw pictures from some amateur photographer friends of mine that were breathtaking. I watched videos of dancers I knew that showcased mind-blowing choreography. I heard performances of spoken word from old schoolmates that had me riveted to my chair as they provided chilling verse after verse. Repeatedly, great works of art made me, the viewer, feel awesome. I enjoyed being privy to things that struck me as high quality, and I enjoyed it even more when these experiences came through someone I knew.  Moreover, the work of others inspired me to incorporate such great qualities into whatever I did. Far from discordant, the desire to create and the drive to share were actually complementary parts of an exchange system that provided participants with pleasure.

                There can be no gainsaying the fact that part of me simply wants some accolades from others, even if such accolades have been conferred before. But above and beyond that, I want to partake in this economy of pleasure as a supplier. I am always watching, and listening, and reading the works of others and experiencing the satisfaction that comes with witnessing a job well done. Every now and again it feels good to be able to and to actually give this same joy to others. So I will watch and listen to the market for some sign of equilibrium between what I’m supplying and what the public is demanding, or at the very least for some message of how to improve my product. The only thing that still bothers me is the silence.

[i]Karenga, Maulana. “Black Art: Mute Matter Given Force and Function.”