There are moments when the world feels too big, too vast, to imagine that an individual voice might matter. I find election years do that to me. Checking my phone feels like an act of courage (or idiocy) as I’m hit with this opinion or that as soon as I open an app. News and pundits and implications hit you like ice water. Because I know who I’m voting for, and have known for a while, I’ve avoided the news—especially anything to do with the election cycle.
This isn’t because I don’t want to be informed. I am, in many ways, too informed. And I know from experience the result of information overload is artistic block.
Last night, I made a mistake. After successfully avoiding election coverage for months, I let John Oliver’s voice fill my living room for thirty minutes, and the spiral began.
Here’s the truth about being an artist in times of crisis: everything feels too big and, as an artist, I feel too small to make any kind of difference. How can art possibly matter when the world seems to be teetering on a knife’s edge? What is one poem, one painting, one film, one theatrical performance set against the tide of history?
In 2016 I was directing Opus by Michael Hollinger. This play is about a string quartet preparing to play at the White House—a story of love, passion, perseverance, competition, and art. During a break, we made the fatal error of checking our phones. The election results weren’t just numbers or blue and red painted states: they were that hit of ice water, turning artists into frozen statues, creativity into horrified stares at phone screens. The irony wasn’t lost on me. The play we were working on was about characters struggling with their own interpersonal conflicts and how it affected their ability to create.
“Art imitating life imitating art.” That’s a line from Scream 2. I’ve pondered it before.
But there’s another line from this movie which is fast becoming my-own-personal-philosophy-cornerstone. Sydney, the main character, facing the death of her friends, tries to quit a theatrical production. She’s stressed. She doesn’t think she can focus. The world has become too big, too threatening. Why would a play matter?
The director tells her “The war for men’s souls is fought in the form of art.”
Sydney doesn’t make it through the next rehearsal. She’s too distracted and too scared.
But she tried. She fought anyway.
When the million-woman marches happened in 2017—the birth of the pussy hat—I was in a theater. The day had been designated a build day, but everyone left early to join the marches. Somehow, I couldn’t convince myself to go. So I stayed, stenciling a million fleur-de-lis. While thousands raised their voices in the streets, I didn’t think that my one voice would be as effective as I wanted. Instead, I painted patterns, listening to Hamilton on repeat. It felt small. It felt insufficient. There were so many people protesting, and surely that was a more direct way to speak truth to power. But I didn’t feel like I would add anything to the call that way. Instead, I needed to create something, anything in that moment, so it felt important—this tiny act of defiance against chaos.
After watching Oliver’s segment, I felt the need to say something. But, again, everything feels too big. The consequences too large for one person to influence. I sat before a blank page for an hour, desperate to write something that might add hope or justice to the world. Something comforting. Something insightful. Nothing came. I cried, feeling the weight of inadequacy, the crushing sense that everyone else has already said everything better.
But, in the end, here’s what I need you—fellow artist, creator, dreamer—to know: Your art matters precisely because it feels impossible. When your beliefs, when your heart, when those you love seem to be under attack, when the act of picking up your pencil or paint brush or instrument feels like lifting a mountain, that’s when your creation—no matter how small—becomes an act of revolution.
Whatever you make doesn’t have to be perfect. Your art doesn’t have to be big. My attempt tonight didn’t turn into the poem or essay or insightful short story I wanted. Instead, it became this messy, hopeful blog post that might reach you.
Your attempts to make the world more beautiful matter. Your efforts to lift others’ burdens are welcome. Every brushstroke, every written word, every stenciled pattern is a small light in the darkness. But our works are scattered candles. And yeah, sometimes the night feels too vast and too long. But keep creating.
Because, as Scream 2 teaches us, the war for humanity’s soul is fought through art. Pick up your pencil. Your pen. Your paintbrush. Your instrument. Your voice. Learn your lines. Create what you can in this moment, even if it’s just a shoddy blog post attempting to be encouraging.
You are a light. Keep trying to shine. And go vote.
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