“An-Art-Chy”
or “Why I Write Poetry”
for MK : )
Q: “DOES ANARCHY STILL HAVE LAWS?” + “i dont understand how innovation happens under anarchy”
When I was approached to write for Debate Me, Bruh, I was honestly taken off-guard— even more so when I was offered to answer a reader question. I’m not exactly a well-read woman, and even less so a coherent theorist, but nonetheless I would hate to dampen the inspiration, work ethic, and motivation of a bright young writer by resigning myself to staying in the shadows of established thinkers. Besides, I’m a little bit of a transcendentalist shill, and I wouldn’t be doing Emerson any favors by retiring insight.
That being said, I’m gonna approach this reader question in a bit of a different way. If you really really really want a ‘straightforward’ answer then just google the definition of law and read the other post about people ‘doing whatever’. I’m not going to regurgitate MK’s work.
|| “Ladder, flag, and amplifier:
what the soap box
used to be.
The speaker catches fire
looking at their faces.
His words
jump down to stand
in listeners’ places”
-Langston Hughes, “Corner Meeting”
A: THE LAW OF ANARCHY IS THE MAKING OF ART.
I write poetry to become indomitable.
Honest, unbridled expression is often said to be at the heart of the most revered artistry, and it’s no secret that to show our work is to show ourselves, a matter of great courage—especially if, like myself or MK, you’re a queer. (Or any other kind of ‘other’ for that matter. Yes, that means you too. We all suffer under authority together, albeit in different ways.) Even if we do not work up the courage to show our expressions to a broader audience, or even a group of friends, we admit something to ourselves in making it, sharpening the images of our beliefs, stories, selves, and hurt. We create a kind of permanent vulnerability as not only proof of our conviction but also proof of our needs, our boundaries, our desires, our claim to dignity.
To practice art, then, is to practice the soul of anarchy. As we become more emotionally vulnerable we shed more of our fear of being honest with one another, and as we pass our pieces of our story along, the injustices held inside will lose their camouflage. Even abstract art, be it nonsensical poetry, absurd sculpture, or a shape on a canvas, reveals a need for us to ask each other questions and find people we are opening up with further, which can be a way to encourage the formation of affinity groups. The Situationist Internationale rode the Dadaist gravy-train all the way to, with a broadly left-wing alliance, effectively overthrowing the French government. Of course, creating blocs of power among artists doesn’t have to result in overthrowing the government…
It is also important to consider that not all art is made in honesty. Another victim of commodification, sometimes people make it for the sake of money, fame, or hate—but such pieces can ultimately preserve as a chronicle of their time, stories about the struggle to survive, the struggle to feel like we have a place in the world, the struggle of ‘others’ against someone else’s ‘us’.
|| “...that teaches one to dream or, that which is the same, to struggle”
-Subcomandante Marcos, from “The Story of Dreams”
Artwork which has had any effort put into it will always carry with it a piece of sincerity from its maker the same way pieces of tape always seem to take with them bits of my nail polish. Through this it not only preserves our dreams, but realizes them in a facet, compelling us to try making something again. Anyone who has met or is a self-confessing painter, drawer, writer, or any kind of creator will know that they often cannot contain their efforts to just one project once they get to work on it. Good. Practice makes perfect, and the more vulnerable we allow ourselves to become through our work, the less we have to lose. Every stroke of the pen exercises the love and trust we have for ourselves and each other.
Never be afraid to make something. Never be afraid to say what you’ve made is art. Crying for a proof of anarchy? Find an art museum.
I’ll be writing poetry.
|| “I come back every day
for the love of life I know is both
queer
and old:
those clammy servings of slime
that time can’t help but slip in,
to demand in total
a day complete.”
-from “SLIME I”