Amanda Palmer is one of those rare bright spirits that
humanity is blessed to have existing amongst us—there are many artists who are
of that unique cut—but there’s only one Amanda Palmer. This Christmas, I
treated myself to the audio release of her book The Art of Asking only because I wanted to hear it—to listen to it
like I do her recorded music—to hear her telling it is part of the experience.
It was like a conversation, really—I listened, I nodded, and replied—pondered,
relishing in the idea that someone else understands what I see. I laughed big
belly laughs and I flat out cried my eyes out more than once. I also reminisced
my “when” I noticed things differently, connected the dots, and “when” I wanted
to be an artist and that I wanted to write books—I always wanted more out of
life than being stuck on survive. Sometimes that gets me into trouble because
what I want rubs against other people’s expectations—love her or hate her, Amanda
Palmer does this too. I love her—and I don’t have to agree with everything she
does or says.
I’m late coming to the Amanda Palmer/Dresden Dolls party,
but better late than never. I’m always in search of new music, preferably the
stuff with an edge to it—and I don’t care if it is played on the radio or not.
I found her on Tumblr of all places—someone posted a Youtube video of her cover
of Lua by Bright Eyes and then I
found the Ukulele Anthem, one video
after another, I was hooked. But before that, I tripped across her name on Neil
Gaiman’s blog when I was looking for new books to read. It was shortly after
they were married, and he talked about how proud he was of her, which I thought
was so wicked sweet, and its sweet how smitten he is with her. And of course, I
heard some grumbling about the song “Oasis” and some other shit, probably the
Kickstarter thing, by then, I bought Theatre
is Evil, and was playing the shit out of it, and totally thought it was
cool that she did it independent of a record company—as a fan of the little
folk singer Ani DiFranco, I’m a fan of anyone who will thumb their nose at “the
establishment” and do it themselves.
The major thing I dig about Amanda—she’s the lady who sings
songs about the truth—you know, like Phoebe in Friends, little kids loved her because her songs didn’t gloss over
stuff like death and life—or smelly cat. Amanda’s fans love her because she
sings about the real stuff that connects with them, the things that hurt and
the things that are awesome—life is messy and thankfully, she ain’t afraid to
tell it like it is. Some people can’t handle the truth, whether it’s a poem
about empathy toward an alleged terrorist, or a song about an abortion, or a
blog about having her period, or of all things, armpit hair, to shave or not to
shave. There’s always the contingent out there that cringes—my own mother, god
bless her, was always on me about—“Why
can’t you paint (or write) something nice?” Honestly, I can’t, because that
wouldn’t be true. Sorry, Mom, my vision is different from yours. I’ve always
had my own vision—my own way of doing things. Everyone does, but of course, not
everyone’s vision fits everyone else’s so these differences of visions is
divisive and if I find myself in a room or a town full of people who do not see
things my way I’m set back to the usual “Okay,
who brought the weird girl?” dynamic that is the fucking story of my life.
Amanda has this amazing, genuine vision that is as old as
time, yet as innocent as a babe—she’s following her bliss. I want to hug her. It
makes me happy to know there’s another inspiring young woman out there sticking
her neck out and following her bliss. Lots of her fans tell her they think
she’s brave to do what she does—she says no, not at all. Well, sure, she’s got
her own dose of uncertainty going on just like the rest of us, and some of the
noise she makes has as much to do with being afraid than being brave—this is
why her fans love her so intensely—she’s one of us, she dives into the crowd naked
and trusts us to take care of her. The Fraud Police and all the assholes who spend
their breath or time ticking away on keyboards to tear her down with words—they’re
just hypercritical bullies with nothing better to do.
The Art of Asking
has to be one of the most honest assessments of human nature—why is it so hard
for us to ASK for help—in any form. In this book, she’s shared insight in her
inner life—what makes her tick—and her “how come?” Unfortunately, when any
public figure (or anyone for that matter) especially artists, open up to allow
people in, they open themselves up to some of the most unpleasantness humanity
has to offer. At the same time that Amanda is genuine and willing to help—she
is loaded with self-doubt and vulnerable. I was new to following her while she
was writing the book and when I happen to see that she posted questions on
Facebook, I pondered my own answers.
"WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU'D
ASKED FOR?"
There are times, looking back, I
wish I had asked for help more often than I did—life might’ve been easier, but
less interesting, I suppose. I just never asked for enough of anything—I rarely
asked questions—unless I was really confused because I mentally stepped out the
window during the critical moment when I needed to listen. As soon as “Any
questions?” was spoken aloud, if I had any at all, they ran away. (Fuckers.)
It’s just weird how things work out—if I opened my mouth and asked for help, I
might’ve had a much different life—but because I kept my mouth shut, spent time
absorbing or being absorbed, head down doing my own thing, I probably wouldn’t
have the creativity that I possess to write books and make art. Go figure.
I was always drawing and making stuff, writing stuff, and
took pride in what I did, and I loved showing the things that I made to people.
I was showing around a drawing of a horse I made and one kid yelled at me “You’re such a show off—you just think
you’re hot shit because you can draw!” Why on earth does that still sting
after all these years? It just does. It wasn’t a death threat, but for a little
kid—it might as well have been. So I was pegged early as a narcissistic asshole by a
mouthy little jerk—whatever. Fucking que sera sera.
The Art of Asking is Amanda’s experience with Asking—it’s not an
academic treatise—it’s personal and a personality,
like a diary—it is multi-layered and structured in fragments of time, events,
stages, junctures, and phases (the audio is awesome because it has related
music in it that makes it even more special, especially “Bigger on the Inside” which is so emotionally crushing, I cried my
eyes out.) Inspired by her TED talk, she’s offered her story to give basic
tools for contemporary artist survival, but it’s not a how to manual—it’s inspiration,
it’s encouragement, it’s insight. The lone artist in the garret doesn’t have to
wait for the big break anymore—unless they chose to remain the lone artist in
the garret, that’s their choice. It’s true that not everyone is going to have
outstanding success going it alone—and a great deal of it does have to do with
networking with people, generating interest in what you do, which means
sticking your neck out there and presenting what you have to offer to whoever
wants to check it out—or not. (This is where shameless self-promotion comes in,
but be careful how you do it, cuz people will jump on your sorry ass for
filling their email, twitter, dashboards, forums or whatever social media
network with your obnoxious advertising.) There’s a dance to learn, a delicate
balance to attain before you can even begin to collect a core group of invested
followers. It’s not easy. I know that as a self-published-indie author, I am
thankful for the deposits that are made to my account from time to time—it’s
pocket change—but it’s better than sitting on my manuscripts and receiving
rejection letters. Not everyone is going to like what you do, and some are damn
mean about it. Sometimes I’m just about crazed with worry about what others
think as I put my offerings out there—sometimes I just say “fuck it.” I have
to, otherwise, I’d be paralyzed and I’ll never accomplish a single damn thing.
Amanda worries too much about what others think too. Fuck
it, Amanda. Do what you gotta do.
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