By the power vested in Google, and the good grace of free publicity on sites such as this, I am a writer. Creativity is no longer a question of quality, or quantity, or even being creative. Merely accessibility. And money.
I blame the hipsters. Download GarageBand to your MacBook and you’re a musician. Fish-eye lens plus five-hundred-dollar thrift-store SLR equals photographer. Exorbitantly expensive American Apparel tee-shit dress, green glitter and too much hairspray and you’re a fashion model. Put it all together and you have every group of “artists” my generation has produced. Just add a Starbucks backdrop and a pack of blue American Spirits. Or are the yellow ones cool now? I can’t keep up.
The thinning-out of the talent pool is attributable to a lot of factors– too many swimmers, not enough floaties,no room for the Michael Phelps’ to shine. No wonder he was taking bong hits. Standing out in a sea of mediocrity must be tiring. It’s so much easier to just suck.
So we all do. You do, I do, your friends who you think are talented, they do too, and none of us have even a glint of conscience about it. Why bother? By the time we’ve excreted our trash onto the pile, there’s ten tons more already festering on top of it.
Prosaic or poignant, the odds of my words getting “out there” are quite slim, so I might as well not waste my energy producing a quality product.
That or, hipster scum honestly think their shit don’t stink. Some kid I went to high school with has his profession listed as “freelance photographer,” and has folders of his “work.” It’s blurry, black-and-white snapshots of his hip-looking friends staring angstily or making awkward faces, or holding cats. Always with the cats.
Hell, I should be a freelance photographer. My phone’s camera has a black-and-white setting, I’ve got plenty of cool friends who can make weird faces, and my cats are way cuter than the cats in his “work.”
Pretense aside, our lowered standards– for our own artistic ventures, and the exploits of our peers– are undeniably the product of deep-rooted, well-trained laziness. We’re a generation of have-to-have-it-now, and not a single one of us is willing to commit the time or energy to create something magnificent, when something sub-par can be crapped out, digitally enhanced and published onto the internet in a fraction of the time.
But rather than waste the time craftily arranging words to form a convincing argument, I will leave you with this artsy photograph of my cat, Rorschach.
Take that, Ansel.