This Introvert's Circus
photo collage C. Ascher
“Are you an
Introvert or Extrovert?” That question came up out of nowhere in a doctor’s
waiting room. The person was reading a magazine. I was going to ignore the
question. I edged over a little, pretending I hadn’t heard. But I couldn’t help
thinking about it. The person looked at me expectantly.
My answer finally: “I am an artist.” I thought that pretty much covered
it.
“What does that mean?” was the response. I was stuck. I had to clarify.
‘I mean I guess I’m both,” I said.
“It says here you’re either or. There’s a questionnaire, see?”
My stomach clenched. “No questionnaire.”
“Well, what do you mean?”
I regretted engaging, but now there was no way out. “Well,” how to
explain it? “When I’m thinking about, researching, planning, and making my art,
I want to be alone, undisturbed. The presence of someone else in my art space
is distracting. And,” I added pointedly, “unwelcome.”
“Even if it’s your family?”
“Even love and affection have nothing t do with it. I get irritable. All
I want is for the person to go away so that I can get back to work. But then,
when the work is finished and I take it out of my studio, I want to experience
people’s reactions, get into profound conversations about it. I want people to
connect with it.” I hoped that did it.
“So
you want privacy and acclaim.”
“Not
privacy. It’s not about privacy. It’s about being alone with my material,
trying to discover. And then it’s not about acclaim, it’s about seeing the
impact the finished work has independently of me.”
“What’s
the difference? Being private is an alone thing isn’t it?”
“Big
difference. Privacy is when you take a break from being ‘public’, as when
you’re with family or friends or at work and want some time to yourself to think,
finish some task, rest, clear your mind or re-focus. You want to go back to
being with people after you’re done.”
“Yes, of course.”
“But being solitary is different. You need to be alone to focus on the
ideas and thoughts so that something may come of them, hopefully something
meaningful and important. A break from that can mean you lose the thread, you
lose the momentum, the possibility can be irretrievably lost. That is more
frustrating than being with people is pleasant. The public or social
interaction is then a burden to be avoided at all costs.”
“But
you want acclaim.”
“No.
Once the thinking comes to fruition, I want response. For what I’ve achieved to
have any meaning, it has to have a life beyond me. Acclaim is about me; the
attention is on me, in the end it’s a superficial response that makes me
basically exploit the achievement, or in which the achievement is secondary.
That’s useless to me, because what distinguishes me is my realizing something
that has meaning beyond me. It can live on, be social or public in my stead
while I go focus on the next possibility.”
“Don’t you take a break?”
“Well, sort of. Not really.
It’s always going on in my head. It’s because my work isn’t based on tasks or independent
units. It’s a continuum. Do you see?” Surely.
“You
don’t want to be admired or loved? Don’t you want fame and fortune? Isn’t that
what artists want?”
“Of
course, but not like that, not like you mean it.”
“How I mean it?”
“Because of me, not as a result of my achievement.”
“What’s
the difference?”
My
upper lip had begun twitching. This was torture … what was holding the doctor
up?
“What
is the difference?” repeated as if I hadn’t heard.
There
was no out. “What I am is only partly genetic, only partly determined by
biology. Who I am is a result of how I’ve tried to understand my life, what
I’ve noticed about life. What I make of and with it is what defines me, not my
notoriety or success. It’s a process, see, a life’s work.” Why did I open my
mouth? The look I was getting was skeptical, like I was trying to pull one
over, or like I was some kind of alien spouting strange sounds.
There
was a long pause. Then: “Well, you should try this questionnaire,” was the
reaction.
OMG! I thought, and changed my mind about giving out an invitation to my
exhibition.
“The
doctor will see you now,” called the receptionist, and I bounded out of my
chair like a Jack-in-the-Box. “Goodbye!” I said. I was free!
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