I open the door to the studio, and the roaring is already there. All-consuming and seemingly ever-present, like the sound of waves crashing on a rocky shore. The tumult is filled with thoughts that I have heard many other artists express lately too: Will anybody else see this work? Can I actually do this, make a living of it? The future looms ahead, the entrance of a gaping cave, its contents a total mystery. I am both excited and afraid. In my small corner of the internet, everyone is talking about Instagram, how the platform that they’ve dedicated years to building an audience on is proving thankless.With the algorithm as it currently is, many are wondering what to do next. And beneath all that is perhaps a quiet worry: Is it actually just me? Has my voice, my art, been meaningless all along?
I cannot stop the tide of doubt in its track, lapping at my ankles, slowly submerging my easel and painting cart. I try to breathe, invite air deeper into my belly, imagining gills on either side of my ribs to help my lungs expand. When that doesn’t work to keep the panic at bay, I reach for one of the vials of perfume that I store on the windowsill. As a ritual, I sometimes dab a little bit on my wrists before painting, to ground myself in the space and in my body. The one I reach for this time comes in an onyx bottle, pleasantly heavy in my quivering hand. On it, written in white letters, is a single word: Selkie. The fragrance that envelops me when I press on the nozzle is of the sea, of brine and windswept pines, misted with salt. It encapsulates the essence of the mythical selkie perfectly.
Selkies are essentially seal-people. They most often remain in their animal form, but when the moon hangs heavy in the sky they are sometimes drawn to shore, shedding their pelts and becoming human. I can picture them dancing, rejoicing in the movement of their newfound legs, unwary of watching eyes. At its best, painting feels like that. When the pressure to create content from our artwork overwhelms us, we lose that element of abandon, of mystery. Our movements become more contained, less organic. On some level, we know that we are being watched – or that we will be. We think of what part of the art making process will do well as a reel or story. We pause, adjust the camera. Proceed, always aware of the that glass eye behind us.
In many stories, a selkie woman is ultimately spotted by a fisherman while on shore. He steals her seal pelt and hides it, so that the she is unable to return to the sea. Stranded, she must marry him instead. On land, the selkie suffers. Her face becoming gaunt, her once bewitching gaze vacant. I know that feeling: too-tight walls, too-tight skin. It isn’t solely the documentation of my art making that causes heightened levels of anxiety. Unlike the selkie in so many of these stories, we artists have agency regarding what part of our ritual is observed. It only takes a few minutes of filming amidst many hours of painting to generate enough footage for a reel. It’s the pressure of achieving a viral outcome that makes the camera’s gaze feel so suffocating. When my work and process become a means to an end, they’re drained of vitality. This dynamic could be recreated on any platform, in any medium.
For many years, the narrative for creatives online followed a very specific formula: show up, make quality work, be personable, and the people who your work is meant for will find you. It’s natural to feel disoriented when it becomes clear that, though still possible, the likelihood of this outcome has become even more of a rarity. I think that the anxiety many artists are experiencing comes less from a sense of entitlement than it does from a deep fear of having missed the boat. Instagram was a way for artists to sell their work and sustain their practices, while circumventing some of the more traditional gatekeepers of the art world. Now many of us are back to navigating the issue of how to make our art while also making a livelihood.
I don’t currently have a solution for sustaining a stable income as an artist. All I know is that my body of work calls to me like a body of water does its selkie. Making is a necessity, a matter of survival. So I will continue to make, amidst the torrent of fear and self-doubt, toward a future I can’t fathom. I will paint regardless of who sees the results through an algorithmic fog. That’s all I can promise myself. I think it’s all any of us really can.