Create to express, not impress

Artists are a little off key, but that’s what makes us stand out at choir practice.

The way we re-harmonize reality goes from quirky cute to full-blown "I'm going to strip naked and chase unicorns with a butterfly net because the great vanilla cracker in the chocolate sky is judging me again."

We can't help but be quirky; our diet consists of emotions, after all. We consume joy like sugar, nibble on old grudges, chew on heartbreak like protein, and percolate anxiety like a double espresso shot we didn’t order but got anyway. The more intense the feeling, the more fuel it gives us — even if it leaves us jittery and over-caffeinated.

Writers, painters, musicians, sculptors, chefs ... The medium matters little. In the end, we are all trying to give form to something that is intangible. Our perceptions and biases, our pains and joys, our darkest desires and fears — everything that makes us who we are becomes raw material for that great processor between our ears to grind into something else. Something that, if we're lucky, will elicit a response from you, dear Public.

Sometimes it spits out brilliance. Other times, it jams, sparks fly, and we wake up three days later with glitter in our eyebrows and no memory of how we got there. But either way, the machine runs on everything we’ve lived.

In other words, we're exhibitionists. We'll show you ours, whether you show us yours or not. The motivation may be as self-centered as a narcissistic ego or as noble as the desire to fight social injustice. But I believe it is important for artists not to dwell too much on what effect our work might have.

A long time ago, in a classroom far, far away, one of my journalism instructors imparted this piece of advice: "Write to express, not impress." Let's change one word to make the statement more inclusive:

"Create to express, not impress."

This is more challenging than it seems. Egos being what they are, we all want to be noticed; we all want to matter, at least a little. We all hope that our lives will amount to something; that maybe, just maybe, we'll leave a mark on this world when we turn into stardust.

Such speculations are understandable, but ultimately wasteful. We can't control how others react. One person might be moved to tears. Another might roll their eyes, and scroll past with barely a shrug. Some might even find a meaning we never intended, or misunderstand our intent entirely.

And yet, that’s part of the magic. Once we share our creation, it stops being just ours. It becomes a mirror, reflecting whatever the viewer brings to it. And that’s something no algorithm, critic, or comment section can truly measure.

I would argue that, when we focus on impressing rather than expressing, we compromise our integrity. We contort our work to fit a vague idea of what’s trending or algorithm-friendly. We waste time trying to fit into an abstract mold, but all of those things — the fashion of the day, the opinions of the crowd — end up being shackles, not catalysts.

Expressing an idea clearly, powerfully, even beautifully: That is the goal. The public being impressed is secondary, merely the consequence of a job well done. By being true to ourselves, by being authentic, we grow not just as artists, but as human beings. There lies true freedom.

So go ahead: Ride that unicorn like a mystical Pegasus across a fondant sky. Sing in the shower until the tiles cry. Sketch your secrets, dance your heartbreak, compose your chaos. It’s called passion. Embrace it.

And if you made it this far, congrats — you’re now emotionally complicit in this unicorn chase. Welcome to the club. Meetings are on Tuesdays. We serve metaphorical cake.