A grasp so firm on my heart, stopping it from beating. The franticness of my breath, a mind probing for ways to escape its clasp. My mind can’t distinguish those extremities from the feeling of not being able to create. It’s somewhat of an urgency, the need to pick up a pen, a paintbrush, a camera—anything—to simply reimagine your vision into reality (the moment it’s had). In his book “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running” (2007), Murakami writes, “In the middle of the night, if I wake up and start thinking about something, I’ll get up and write it down. Writing is like solving a puzzle for me. It’s like digging for treasure.” – And when you’ve found it, it’s satisfaction at its finest. When I go extended periods of time without creating, I feel not only a void but as if something has been taken from me. There is no greater agony. Who took my freedom to self-express? Who took my artistry? I’ve been robbed. Give me my volition back.

Art as self-expression is a given. I’ve pondered on why people indulge themselves in artistic endeavours plentiful. Whether it may be to communicate to a specific audience and connect to a culture or a group of people, to explore, to experiment with diverse mediums and test your intellectualism in a different form, for philosophical reasons, for the pure enjoyment of aesthetics, or to create art as a form of activism—whilst there’s a vast variety of reasons, I believe they are all displayed as a form of expression. A way to communicate using visuals and/or text. Yet at times I wonder whether people’s expression is merely performative. A shallow trend that takes the place of authenticity, with a purpose to curate one’s public persona.

Ironically, what I intend to convey is that my expression isn’t remotely performative. I do this selfishly. The purpose of my writing, my designs, my paintings, my photographs, and all my creations is just another form of my selfishness manifested. I’m an avid reader of Murakami’s works, so forgive me for my references, however his interview for The Paris Review in 2004, Murakami said, “I write for myself, not for others, but I’m aware that others may read what I write. If I think too much about the readers while I’m writing, I get distracted.” I relate to this deeply—for if my sole purpose to write were for others to read it, I would never write. I keep so many of my creations in a hidden crest within my soul. I deem them sacred. Yet don’t misinterpret my views; I believe sharing your art with the world is important, and in fear you may think I’m contradicting myself—I mean this selfishly. I mean, to create a piece that fulfils oneself, then not think about it twice—just display it. Let it be ripped apart by them or praised at its feet—pay it no mind.

I remember a conversation with Dara, a friend of mine, in her intricately decorated apartment—she’s a graphic designer with a focus on visual communication through art. I think it’s important to surround yourself with like-minded creatives. I was going on about how I have a distaste for performative art. I find it insincere, it seems to be somewhat of a need for external validation or the pressure to follow trends with no depth simply because they’re widely enjoyed or recognised, which ultimately means you’re chasing this “success” in all the wrong ways. I say this because I believe art should be a raw reflection of what one feels and stands for. Something that’s protruding from inside you.  Aching to get out. She interrupted me: “What if this ‘inauthentic’ contemporary art is simply provocation? I believe sometimes it is enough for art to be a provocation to be called art.” She stated how some people may have an intention of provocation behind what seems to be “performative” art. To provoke a thought, she believes, is simple enough for art to be art. I wondered what she meant; she went on to mention Comedian (2019) by Maurizio Cattelan as an example. The reactions this art piece evoked were the aim from the start. “For me, this act alone was a piece of art—a statement that sparks thought and emotion, even if that emotion is a negative one,” making this absurdity of a piece, showing modern society how provocative art with seemingly no depth to it, can still have the effect of what we deem as true art. We took a sip of our hot chocolates.

Perhaps I need to listen to others’ opinions more and be open to the knowledge I could gain, although my distaste for “performative” art remains the same, whether viewed as such or contains more intellect to it than I imagined. I’m stubborn in that manner. Maurizio’s piece may provoke thought, but the thought provoked is that art could be anything, and of great value at that, leading to one’s success. This, to me, defeats the point of what we call art. If all art lacked depth and authenticity and was made just for the sake of being and profited from by its made-up value, I wouldn’t partake—I’d leave my volition and the way it fulfils me at the door. Grieve it eternally.

When I talk about fulfilment in relation to my artistry, I talk about the end of an everlasting anticipation, knees bouncing—not in anxiety but in excitement. The feeling of wanting to create is unmatched—it’s an urgency within you that one can’t comprehend unless they possess it—but it differs in everyone. And the feeling after you’ve created is a feeling of gratification. To finally be proud, after so long.

Because—in my case—the process of creating a piece is either unbearably long or in the spur of the moment. And once it’s done, it’s an indescribable joy. And onto the next. I deeply relate art to introspection—my inner world, my emotions. When I write, it’s about creating something that softens you in the cruellest form. It’s gentle in the most violent ways. It’s about writing something so soothing, yet so introspective it tears you apart. I once wrote about teeth. How random, how simple.

“I have ripped my teeth out once.

It was an excruciating pain, and whilst they shouted and screeched for help, I listened to their cries; I understood their pain.

Yet, all I could focus on was the blood gushing, dripping from the gums of each and every single one as I yanked them off.

One by one.

Dents in my fingers, the cluttered floor.

Teeth all around.

And perhaps I should not have been in awe, but my mind was racing, searching for where the blood had derived.

A slight panic, stress flowing through my veins.

Yet, I was still standing mighty still.

For what had happened to cause this mess?

What had happened, leading to my duress?

Although I must’ve known because, well, my teeth were right there.

Bare on the ground, waiting to be picked back up and shoved into my flesh.”

This is an old piece, unbearably violent from the start—here I did not try to mask my art with soft, soothing words—although my diction remains the same. I left it as it was; not all works have to have that complexity to mask what is with what appears to be.

What I talk about when I talk about my writing is truly all my creations. I don’t limit myself as an artist—I think that would be a pity. I crave to do so much and fulfil so many different areas that can be defined as “art”—which are limitless. And it may seem to be too much for some, but the branches of my desires extend far longer than what one’s trivial mind could imagine, for I have plenty of fig trees to grow. These trees grow in solitude; I deem it required within my artistic process. To not allow myself that time in solitude, to not let those ideas start flooding my mind, would be a betrayal to my desire to create. A violation to my aspirations.

Let me regress a bit—my desire to create is violent at best. As much as I try to be soft, there’s nothing tender about me. I say me because my art is who I am—or rather, I am my art. In reflection, you see my silhouette, my being. I feel somewhat exposed right now. Yet again, selfishly so.