The Introverted Artist
On Bill Evans, Miles Davis, and the inward gaze
In James Kaplan's 3 Shades of Blue: Miles Davis, Bill Evans, John Coltrane, and the Lost Empire of Cool, the eminent and soft-spoken pianist Evans refers to his inner conflict thusly:
"...I came to the conclusion that all I must do is take care of the music, even if I do it in a closet. And if I really do that, somebody's going to come and open the door of the closet and say Hey, we're looking for you."
The quote speaks to the struggle of the introverted artist—which is one I know all too well. My natural introversion was obscured throughout my adolescence by a specious spotlight, an operant bent toward exhibition and extraversion learned as a mechanism of survival and self-preservation—which, however paradoxically, both served and proceeded to test its purpose. In my adult life as a working musician and writer, I've been challenged by my strong aversion to performance, and also must consistently contest my reluctance to share the work or engage in self-promotion. This often results in partially sardonic bearing (e.g. personal website text) which attempts to bridge the gap and effect something like good-natured irreverence or earnest pasquinade.
As I contend daily with my preference for privacy and solitude in a world predicated upon performance and connectivity, I continue to deepen my understanding of my craft and contribution. As a writer, I may perhaps be first and foremost a diarist, insomuch as my personal diaries/journals have always constituted the rudiment and fundament of my literary work. (I am also amused by/interested in subverting the gendered connotation of terms, i.e. 'diary'=female/'journal'=male.) I also find that work in this literary form—or its boondock purlieus—allows me to write honestly and intimately, to Vonnegut's One Person, exploring quotidian curiosities in a manner perhaps more naked than as afforded by stories and novels and less didactic than as expressed in essays and editorials.
Perhaps some readers will be puzzled by this idea; isn't music made to be heard, writing written to be read? We are conditioned by a commodified society to assume this is so, that all is merely 'content' to be consumed, product to be peddled. But my work is not generated as commodity, and furthermore is not necessarily intended to influence anyone beyond myself. I write and play music because it's who I am and what I do; audience is ancillary. It's a vocation before it's an occupation. And when work—be it writing, music, or whatever—is done with such an intense inward gaze, it's often more difficult to conceive of sharing it with the world.
So then why share it?
I suppose because, if it intends to live, it needs to breathe.
It is not a parasite, after all. And keeping it all to oneself may do a disservice to both the work and the world it might enrich.1
It's been said, by Carl Rogers and others, that what is most personal is most universal. We might do well to remember that our external experience is merely a projection of our internal life, and that anything we take issue with out in the world originates within us. Accordingly, by contemplating the most personal of issues, the artist addresses the most universal of matters, and spares themselves the frustration and futility of attempting to appeal to the masses.
Miles Davis and Bill Evans exhibited a symbiotic musical relationship, inspiring each other and sharing a distinctive sensibility. In their music, together and individually, one hears an arresting introspection, pensive and wistful lyricism, a reverie elegant and muted (literally: Miles' use of the Harmon mute was part of his signature sound and lent his playing its unmistakable intimacy). Both were reluctant performers, and yet both parlayed this reluctance into work of consummate brilliance.
Miles, in his autobiography with Quincy Troupe, memorably remarked: "Man, sometimes it takes you a long time to sound like yourself." I'd be lucky if I could ever manage to scratch the surface of either artist's ingenuity. But I can keep working, taking care of the work, even if I do it in a closet, or on a simple website.
And when it's time, someone will come looking, hopefully not a moment too soon.
The operative words in this sentence are the auxiliary may and might: I do not necessarily assume my work has anything to offer anyone beyond myself—but I also do not dismiss this as a possibility. Ultimately, however, I am of the firm belief that an artist should have agency when it comes to sharing their work, and should they decide to keep it all to themselves, I believe this should be respected and honored. It is for this reason that I have never read Kafka, because fuck Max Brod. Alas, this is an argument/essay for another day.