Jed Wolf

In our culture, if you like to cook, you don’t have to become a chef to enjoy making nice meals for appreciative family and friends, but it’s rare for artists to express ourselves in the same way.

Unless musicians are “entertaining” in appropriate settings, performing for others especially one-on-one makes people uncomfortable. People with dementia can take it, but everyone else becomes embarrassed and advisey.

Over the years whenever I’ve sung for friends or family, it’s peculiar. I know they think they mean well. Rather than appreciating the song or intimate moment, people’d rather discuss making it on Broadway like that’s what someone like me would wanna hear. Not me. I never did. I don’t like performing. A life like that sounds horrific. Referring to performing as a necessary evil has always been hard to explain, but I keep trying.

Artists are contained by how we fit into this culture or we might escape.

Painters are told to mass produce, or get in galleries as if commerce is the goal. Pondering what underlies artistic expression makes people uncomfortable as does singing to them without an agenda.

At first, artists egos are enraptured and shocked by the opinions, often of teachers who’s job it is to make or break us. Critics guard imaginary gates like dogs with saucer eyes, bless their hearts, but only those of us who refuse to look can hope to find peace in what we do.

If we don’t hone our creativity so it’ll pass someone else’s idea of muster and make money, what’s the point one might ask?

I invented an amazingly simple kite made of three bird feathers and thread that attracts wild birds. It flies as well or better than any other kite and is extraordinarily lovely and inspiring as it dances, but because it cannot be marketed commercially for for many reasons including bird flu, is it less valuable?

Boy, do I have a lot so say about this, but rather than dissipate my energy in debate about my sociopathic tendencies, I’m writing two new things. One is an upcoming Pecha Kucha 20/20 presentation (google it) entitled, “Phantom of the Rest Home” and the other is a new musical about the primitive roots of entertainment which includes a song called, “Sing or be Supper.”

So why one might ask would I, who never wanted to be a chef, expose my food to critics? Because artists have enormous influence. Critics are merely a commitment test.

It’s fun to dodge slings and arrows while writing songs and debating story lines with collaborators, but the dangers in remaining principled without pandering to audiences or critics while attending to them for free, is shamanic.

Instead of saying “thanks for trying to offer something to make the world a better place,” their opinions will descend like seagulls on beach hotdogs. This is the exact reason why art, as in medicine, must have a touch of poison.