Kill All Artists By Kevin Schirmann

Yesterday, I watched a piece of visual media, and it was utter beauty. Its deep and rich colour palettes stood out to me. Nauseous and psychedelic purples merged reminiscently into those green geometric patterns I see behind my eyes whenever I rub them too hard, dripping into a deep, saturated, and grainy red that gave it all this dream-like aesthetic - accompanied by these gorgeous Bossa Nova vibes and song. Of spotted ladybug, ephemeral smoke tiger next to waterfalls, the veritable treasure trove of glitter and shine that the small air bubbles left in the water as they rose. A familiar accented voice-over blabbered a lot in these videos through cool, artsy monologues. But there was this one sentence that they said that made me so absolutely upset at how pretentious it was.

I want to kill all artists because I’m jealous of you.

The day before, I listened to the music of a girl I'd liked to have gotten to know better. It reminded me of the songs people play in public, the ones my classmates in Germany would. Around campfires. In parks. Of unabashed vocals, maybe not always happy, but always sincere. Of smiles, jittering guitar strings. Hard, energetic strumming. I always sat a distance away from the sing and song; I tended to enjoy the smaller groups, us who'd build the campfires. Not that I was any good at fire making, I just grabbed the sticks, and asked like a puppy if there was anything else that I could do, struggling to meet your eye as we both smiled at each other.

Today, I started reading Chainsaw Man again. To me, it’s a far better work than the author’s Fire Punch – his breakout story! Still, I really do like that older work. Agni’s tale, the man with the titular flaming fist, has some of the most fascinating and ridiculously meta approaches to the comic book and cinematic medium on the planet. On some hands, it really is his best work. On others, it’s vile – I hate some of those panels he put to paper with burning passion. Sometimes I really wonder if we'd be better off without it. I've thought that way about a lot of art over the past year. Whatever the case, I read it far before such a reflection. Yet now I can’t quite shrug off this feeling - despite how much his art moves me, I think I’d find the man absolutely disgusting if I met him in person.

So? That video on YouTube, the memories of my childhood, and my favourite mangaka and his traumatised protagonists all speak of the intense discomfort I have with myself and art. For now, I’d like to share one: I want to kill all artists because I’m jealous of you.

I’d like to put so much of the world and the people I love into art. Still, I intimately struggle with trying in the face of failure, in fear of tripping on my ambitions or having my work misinterpreted, or honestly, because sometimes it’s just plain bad, no two ways about it. Which fears here are justified, I do not know, but I want the sincerity of a heart. I’d like to be able to exist in society and do things together. I’d love nothing more than to lodge my ribcage into the gaps of yours and intimately share our all. To encounter this respectful and loving acknowledgement of the truth that is the othered similarity of “persons” – such embodied and lived understanding makes all my writing about it look like straw. I’d like to see the ugliness even if it scares me, be it in sickness, injury, or sheer contempt. I want to see what is broken and hold it close, to engage with all the parts of people that might make your or my skin crawl, with no one at fault, because sometimes people are people and that’s enough to put us off - us with wounds that scream, aching to be kissed. I’d like to be small in this way someday, a home for the hurt.

I’d like to be able to exist in society and do things together. I’d love nothing more than to lodge my ribcage into the gaps of yours and intimately share our all.

So, tomorrow, instead of jealousy, I hope to admire. I hope to read your poems, and dance with you on empty dance floors, to have long tipsy heart-to-hearts over bargain Albert Heijn wine. I am happy watching you laugh and enjoy life as I fight sleep next to you while we watch my anime and your improv. I smile, knowing that my clothes smell of your sheep’s wool blanket. That I can hold the white spots on your fingernails (you need more calcium and less popcorn in your diet), that I can sing around you, that we can stare into each other’s eyes with teeth glared in mischievous smiles as we watch our faces melt on pretty snowy nights into terrifying alien monsters with sludge for eyes!!! I cherish everything you give me as the gift that it is, and I do not want for more. To end, a cautionary tale: trouts have underwater weapons. Dear friends, avoid them at all costs!