The Immersed Artist Myth

Photo by Avi Richards on Unsplash

There's a myth that I keep returning to. The myth of the artist, immersed in their work, losing track of time, pouring all their energy into the masterpiece in front of them. And honestly? I want that myth more than anything. I want to be left alone so I can focus on my writing while all my earthly needs are being catered to. Wouldn't that be great?

In real life, the artists who were immersed in their craft were able to do so because they had wives who took care of the food, the laundry and the children. The artists we mythologise as existing on a higher plane than mere mortals almost always had a woman taking care of the rest.

And these artists also had a support staff of agents or publishers who handled the business side of show business. Sometimes the same person who took care of the laundry was the one managing the artist's career. In the literature industry today, even the big names are expected to do tours and interviews and talk about their books, sometimes for as long as it took them to write the book itself. I get why artists have to do it (otherwise the piece disappears into the internet void), but as a system, it doesn't make sense. Why do we demand the expert who has spent years honing their craft to do so many other things in which they are not an expert? We should instead let them—beg them to—spend as much time as they can creating the next book or play or painting or song.

For a while now, I have been fantasising about a team of women who would get my creative vision and would support it. These women's work would be visible and credited. This dream team would include an editor, a publisher, a designer, and a publicist, all supportive yet discerning, who would give me feedback that would enhance the creative vision. They would take care of everything around the book. And then I can go back to my writing.