Date: 09-28-2025
Source: Journals Randolph Black
Last night I listened to a podcast discussing Leo Tolstoy’s essay, What is Art, and I learned that once upon a time ol’ Tolstoy said something like this:
In the same way that language is used to communicate information, so is art used to communicate emotion.
This one sounded like a trumpet for me, and brought surprising and almost ineffable clarity to something I’d been contemplating for a long time.
What is my purpose as an artist? What even is art?
My art feels so much more personal than I am comfortable with, as I am someone who has struggled with an epic fear of being seen, so the nature of my work seems like a cruel irony.
Still from Hamnet, 2025.
My brutal inner critic convinces me that there is nothing within me that hasn’t been said before, and better.
I sometimes feel the urge to burn all of my Journals in a ritual fire.
But then sometimes I feel something. Something that wants to be communicated in spite of me.
I am not an essayist. I’m not particularly clever or impressive. I suffer if I don’t create, and that’s why I do it.
I have no new information to share. No guidance. No answers. All I have are these threads that I tug on occasionally to see where they lead.
Emotion is key. At least for me.
This thread led to my suffering, my emptiness, my disappointment, & finally to the power of beauty & art to lift me up once again from the muck of life and remind me why it’s worth it to be human for a while.