The Upside of Obscurity

Did you know Hunter Biden paints, and his work is actually okay? Its monetary worth is entirely in his signature, and once his father leaves office, his work will be reduced to a conversation piece, like those cans of Jimmy Carter’s brother’s beer.

At least Biden’s art is repped, shown in galleries, sold to collectors; many remarkable artists never show, much less sell, a painting, just as immensely talented writers and brilliant musicians will go unknown.  

I’ve been thinking about this a bit, and while writing is my thing and know I have an aptitude and in some moments what feels like a calling, I don’t know what I’d do with fame. I’d undoubtedly have to bend my work to others’ whims and spend my dwindling time not writing what I’m thinking or feeling but producing salable content, which sounds not like sour grapes dreadful but genuine hell. 

I love when someone appreciates something I come up with, and feel fulfilled whilst following my own weird-ass inclinations, not worrying where or how my musings land. The annoyance I feel when the New York Times glowingly directs me to a well-known author’s must-read book that turns out to be a piece of crap passes, because I get that business is business, and me, I get to write.

Hunter, not that I’m a fan, but I hope you get lucky, and keep painting.