Haley Nahman wrote about what she calls “consciously life-affirming” art for her newsletter Maybe Baby. She talks about how consciously life-affirming art — her examples include “YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL” graffiti and paralympic athletes in Cheerios commercials — prescribe good-feeling, which is why they’re sort of synonymous with marketing. Corporations “empowering” you to buy their products. She uses this to critique Everything Everywhere All at Once, which is an important thing to do for a movie that I loved but basically never questioned. Whether or not I agree with the critique is sort of irrelevant. But I do take exception to something in her central idea.
Disclaimer that this language helped to identify something that irked her personally, that felt patronizing. Totally valid.
What I think is dangerous as a broader claim, though, is this idea that art has to be unconsciously moving. That trying to be profound is a kind of salesmanship, that art has to be effortless. Some artists — although I’ve never met them — might just spill themselves out and, oops, they’re a genius. But I think everyone else needs some faith in the value of their ideas. Why are we doing all of this if we don’t actually believe that what we create has the capacity to move people?
Nahman mentions a poem she finds on a memorial wall. But it isn’t found poetry, a genre about noticing beauty hidden in everyday language. It’s a poem. Its author summoned the courage to write what they felt in a way that’s beautiful, trusting some reader to come find it in good faith, even though sharing anything of what’s inside yourself is completely embarrassing. What they did was conscious.
The world is full of people who carry that beauty and are careful to never let it out. These people still need someone to tell them it’s okay to believe in what they’re making. I’ve been affected — seriously uplifted from downward places — by “YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL” street art. I felt silly. I thought, “Ugh, this is so basic.” It was a rock that said “You are more than a GPA.” But there was a me that needed some low branch to grab, and there was a rock that wasn’t obviously trying to sell me something.
I took it home. It was awkwardly shaped. It didn’t sit on my dresser in a way that displayed its message. So it sat facing straight up, illegible, displaying half that was painted blue and stony half that wasn’t supposed to be seen.