Failing Moments.

'Sisyphus' by Edward Burne-Jones, circa 1870. Tempera on paper.

What does it mean to fail in the twenty-first century? There are a few immediate responses that have been looming in front of me recently and they are mostly connected to education and income. Scouring my memories of school, university and employment, the following suggestions are their very own bundles of dread. These are the most immediate (and mysteriously similar) categories that come to mind:

Failure is to not do well academically: to fail exams, to drop out of university, to get a low grade, to not constantly improve yourself intellectually, to not read, to not understand specific ways of thinking.

Failure is to be weak: to be unfit, to have excess weight, to rely on family, to be ill, to have anxiety, to have depression, to not be able to cope with a job, to not be able to cope without a job, to leave a job, to show anger.

Failure is to not succeed: to not be able to find a job,  to have a minimum wage job, to not work for free in the hope that it will lead to a job, to not be ambitious, to not find a job that is relevant to your degree.

And, above everything else, it is a failure to not be able to cope with these failures; to be unable to accept your situation and to be too weak to get yourself out of it. And so the current job market – and the necessity for constant further education – speaking from a graduate’s perspective, feels like a trap.

Let me explain this perhaps too-bitter sentiment. In secondary school (and often before) our lives were directed towards one goal: university. A degree. Then you get the degree and leave university. If you look hard enough or if you’re lucky you find a job, any job, until you realise you’re not qualified for the area of work that you want to do. So to get there you have to go back to university and get an MA or MSC. You do that, while constantly being reminded that no amount of qualifications and determination is a guarantee of success.

Along the way, if you have the drive, you do voluntary work for organisations in addition to your job. You offer free labour in return for experience. And as the months turn into years you begin to hear certain phrases as if played on a broken record: “It’s voluntary, but it will look great on your CV!,” “I shouldn’t complain really, at least I have a job,” “I don’t care any more, I just want to pay the rent without having to resort to benefits” and “I can’t leave.” The feeling of powerlessness can be overwhelming.

We don’t trust anyone any more. We lack community. We must constantly compete. We were disillusioned and, as a consequence, life consists mostly of shock and dormant rage. And yes, these problems are infinitesimal compared to other crisis’ occurring daily around the globe. But tell that to your serotonin levels. They will not listen.

So how can we turn this situation on its head and allow optimism to thrive? How can we sustain creativity? Yes, it’s difficult to find the drive after a working day, and it sucks being away from your loved ones because you have had to move for a job or for a course. But, as the saying goes, you only live once.

The problem with this is that the pressure to optimise your life is sometimes the worst pressure of all. It is the ultimate bringer of failure. And I want rid of it.

I’m not a professional. I’m not qualified to give competent advice on the matter. What I can suggest, however, is ignoring what we know to be failures in our current society. If you drop out of university because you hate it, good. If you leave your job because it takes the piss, great. If you’re not willing to do voluntary work for organisations that take advantage of struggling graduates and unemployed people, excellent.

And remember: no matter how isolated the situation feels, there is a mass of people out there who can empathise. Also, do a little (or a lot) of what you love – no excuses – and consider that a painting doesn’t need to be seen by a thousand people in order for it to be appreciated.

J. K. Rowling speaks about failure in her commencement speech for Harvard University, seen here on TED. She somehow transforms the subject of failure from one of despair to one of inspiration and optimism. Sure, most of us won’t reach the summits of Rowling’s success, but at least she is taking the time to let us know that it’s OK to mess up every once in a while.

And sometimes that’s all a person needs: a little reminder that, just because you can’t cope, you are not a failure.

Writing about Looking.

Norman Rockwell's 'Connoisseur,' The Saturday Evening Post, January 13, 1962 (cover). Private collection.

I would like to open this blog entry with a confession:

I have never read any Marcel Proust.

Or is that a disclaimer? I just thought I’d get it out of the way, because what I’ve been mulling over these last few days seems to keep bouncing back to the French author and his À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time/Remembrance of Things Past).

I’ve been thinking about methods of describing emotional responses to art.

This is intertwined with the physical act of looking at an artwork. I recently discovered the horrors of having to attempt this in a short story – the first of the term (and it shows). My protagonist embarks on a journey to discover a portrait of Rubens’ wife, Helene, and on encountering the object becomes enraptured. Sparks fly, emotions soar, tears are shed. You get the idea.

Except sparks didn’t really fly. Emotions did not soar. It had never occurred to me before: I have no idea how you write about art on an emotional level. I’m not talking about art as an object ripe for description, but instead about the personal, emotive affect that it has on an individual. I fell prey to this struggle more recently with my post about British Art Show 7, for which I intended a follow-up entry regarding the artworks that particularly enamoured me and my friends. Listing them was instinctive enough, but trying to type their significance wasn’t just problematic…it was embarrassing.

And this leads me back to Proust. Edmund de Waal, in his recent and wonderful book The Hare with Amber Eyes, describes Proust’s mega-prose as being “suffused not just with references to Giotto and…Renoir, but, by the act of looking at paintings, by the act of collecting and remembering what it was to see something, with a memory of the moment of apprehension” (p106).

The “moment of apprehension” is an ideal way to describe one aspect of experiencing an artwork. Perhaps, as de Waal goes on to consider, it is also about learning to “stand back and then move forward,” both in front of an artwork and in your subsequent recollections of it. How well this will translate into writing, or to other people, I can’t say, as it doesn’t just depend on the artwork but on the writer, too. And that’s what terrifies me.