I have spent many a day sneering at the mannerisms and idiosyncrasies of self-proclaimed artists in my midst. I would do everything from accusing them of deliberately evoking and welcoming rebuke and insult from bystanders through extravagance, to assuming that their own unmitigated creativity was a haughty belief that they were above reason and reproach. I haven't completely abandoned these ideas, but I've had to modify them to accommodate a rather unsettling possibility.
As I sat in my Uber, contemplating how and when the subject of ethnicity and faith was going to be broached aside my Far-Eastern chauffeur, I was struck with an uncomfortable opinion. My driver droned on about his respect and awe at the prowess and alleged rarity of artists in contemporary life. It was only once I began to analyze his words, that I realized his supposed complement was directed at me. Could it be true? Am I an artist? It seems inevitably solipsistic and self-flattering no matter the tone voice in which that question is asked. But the life of a writer, an editor, and even a linguist bewitched this man. I tried to explain it away in my head by composing rationalizations about how his immigrant status and restrictive Islamic upbringing could render any expression of dissident thought as "artistic." Then I noticed something — regardless of whether or not that thought was valid, a defense mechanism kicked in. I needed to spurn the title, however sycophantic the delivery appeared.
All the qualities that I view with a mollified disdain are held by my heroes. Hitch was a popinjay and a gadfly, and I think would at times feign anger in his polemics. Gore Vidal felt the same way about him, saying that he began to "try too hard" in his latter years. Hitch would express thinly veiled contempt for old essayists like Henry Fairlie, saying that he would invent a subject to be annoyed about. Peterson is self-aware enough to recognize his manic and bombastic temperament, and Jim Cornette is on prescription level Zantac and a low sugar diet to curb his rage and its ensuing cardiac implications. All three have however conveniently stressed their unwavering politeness and civility when confronted with worthy opponents, and even become docile when potential humiliation could result. It pains me to admit it, but everything up to and including a mock heart attack and excessive cortisol release are familiar.
Could I take refuge in the it's only human to be socially schizophrenic cliché? Perhaps. Or I could tap into my narcissism and quote Emerson in saying that consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. I prefer the complement to my cerebellum and uniqueness. After all, which artist doesn't love pretentiously unwarranted praise?
