Totality-At the West End Gallery
I demanded a realm in which I should be both master and slave at the same time: the world of art is the only such realm. I entered it without any apparent talent, a thorough novice, incapable, awkward, tongue tied, almost paralyzed by fear and apprehensiveness.
–Henry Miller, Reflections on Writing (1940)
I have often said that I am doing what I do now because it is the only thing I do well. This always peeves Cheri a bit because she knows I have other abilities that I could turn to if needed. And to an extent, that is true. I have lived and worked in the real world. I have built a house (well, kind of a house), started and ran a business with over twenty employees, and held several jobs of varying degrees of difficulty, from day laborer to finance manager. Hell, I was even a union steward for the Teamsters.
But all of those attempts came with a shelf life. I was often the exemplary employee– until I wasn’t. And that usually came when I got to the point that monotony set in which often began once I was no longer allowed to freestyle in whatever job I held at the time. I tried to reshape every job I held into one where I had total autonomy, where I was the boss. Oddly enough, most of my employers were fine with this, allowing me great latitude in how I did my job, allowing me to bend the rules a bit. For example, in my job as car salesman, the manager allowed me to okay my own deals without bringing them to him for approval. This allowed me a degree of freedom and creativity that satisfied a need in me.
But at some point, every business owner or manager needed to reestablish control by reining me in. Once I was back in the herd, the clock inevitably began ticking on the shelf life of that job. Monotony and boredom replaced the little zing that I had created for myself in the job.
It was only in the world of art where I could find a job that allowed me total freedom to do what I wanted to do in my own way, with or without my own rules.
I could be the Boss. The Master.
And with the autonomy that came in being the Master, I was also willing to be the Slave.
The Master’s will and my own as the Slave were inseparable. When the Master wanted more, the Slave in me was willing to give more without question or revolt. Since the Slave, being the Master as well, understood the needs of the Master, he was always willing to respond with total effort.
And the Master, knowing intimately what the Slave was thinking and feeling, had a high degree of understanding and benevolence. When the Slave was tired, the Master allowed him to rest. When the Slave was distracted, as he often was, the Master sought ways to stimulate his mind.
I came to realize that this Master/Slave relationship was one that could only exist for me in the world of art. And even though I needed to sell my art to make my living, it was always more about creating work that satisfied my autonomy, my own needs. That was the Slave’s task.
If people thought they worthy of buying, then more the better. Sometimes they did and when they didn’t, it was the task of the Master to find a way to reward the Slave’s efforts.
I’ve had the passage below (that also contains the opening paragraph at the top) in my files for some time now. Though Miller is talking about writing, his words easily apply to anyone in any creative field which also refers to any small business owners who had a personal vision they followed, becoming Master/Slaves themselves. There is so much in the paragraphs below, from beginning to end, that speak directly to my own experience. I think it is a remarkable essay is worth a read for anyone who ever felt the desire to have creative autonomy, to be both Master and Slave in their job and life.
Of course, I understand this is not for everyone. There is a great degree of uncertainty and risk in being without a safety net or the life preserver of a regular job in the regular world, as Miller writes. You are often the only thing keeping your head above the water.
But as the René Crevel line, which he quotes, says: No daring is fatal.
I like to think, as Miller writes in the final paragraph, that I have arrived at the mysterious X position of the artist, and it is this anchorage which no one can describe in words but yet subsists and exudes from every line that is written. Of course, for me, I would substitute every painting that is created for every line that is written.
It works either way for me.
I chose the painting at the top, Totality, from my current West End Gallery show because I find it very symbolic of my experience. The worked fields in the foreground represent the hard work of the Slave and the Red Tree overseeing it all is symbolic of the Master. Here he admires the work before him, knowing that he is both Master and Slave.
And appreciative that he has found such a place.
I hope you can take a minute or two to read the whole passage below from Miller’s 1940 essay. If you want a song, I have included the fittingly titled I Wanna Be Your Slave, at the bottom. It is from the Italian band Måneskin who gained wide fame, especially in Europe, when the won the 2021 Eurovision competition. The song is a big worldwide hit and goes pretty hard for a Monday morning. Maybe it’s what you need to kick ff your week? Maybe.
I think I should also confess that I was driven to write because it proved
to be the only outlet open to me, the only task worthy of my powers. I
had honestly tried all the other roads to freedom.
I was a self-willed failure in the so-called world of reality, not a failure
because of lack of ability. Writing was not an “escape,” a means of
evading the everyday reality: on the contrary, it meant a still deeper
plunge into the brackish pool—a plunge to the source where the waters
were constantly being renewed, where there was perpetual movement
and stir.
Looking back upon my career, I see myself as a person capable of
undertaking almost any task, any vocation. It was the monotony and
sterility of the other outlets which drove me to desperation.
I demanded a realm in which I should be both master and slave at the
same time: the world of art is the only such realm. I entered it without
any apparent talent, a thorough novice, incapable, awkward, tongue
tied, almost paralyzed by fear and apprehensiveness.
I had to lay one brick on another, set millions of words to paper before
writing one real, authentic word dragged up from my own guts. The
facility of speech which I possessed was a handicap; I had all the vices
of the educated man. I had to learn to think, fed and see in a totally
new fashion, in an uneducated way, in my own way, which is the
hardest thing in the world. I had to throw myself into the current,
knowing that I would probably sink.
The great majority of artists are throwing themselves in with life
preservers around their necks, and more often than not it is the life
preserver which sinks them. Nobody can drown in the ocean of reality
who voluntarily gives himself up to the experience. Whatever there be
of progress in life comes not through adaptation but through daring,
through obeying the blind urge.
“No daring is fatal,” said René Crevel, a phrase which I shall never
forget. The whole logic of the universe is contained in daring, i.e., in
creating from the flimsiest, slenderest support.
In the beginning this daring is mistaken for will, but with time the will
drops away and the automatic process takes its place, which again has
to be broken or dropped and a new certitude established which has
nothing to do with knowledge, skill, technique or faith.
By daring one arrives at this mysterious X position of the artist, and it is
this anchorage which no one can describe in words but yet subsists and
exudes from every line that is written.
–Henry Miller, Reflections on Writing (1940)