Anyone who has spent time with working artists is aware of the specific type of light that enters a studio at two in the morning. Two times, the coffee has gone cold. The dog is tired of waiting. The half-mixed track in the headphones, the piece on the easel, or the page on the desk has all ceased to be projects and instead resembles hostage situations where the artist is unsure of who is holding whom. At openings, no one really wants to discuss this aspect.
Young artists are sold obsession as a sort of badge. Successful painters describe working sixteen-hour days as a personality trait in podcasts, art school critique rooms, and interviews. And it’s true. The majority of the work that endures was created by someone unable or unwilling to let it go. However, it’s difficult to ignore the fact that the same trait frequently results in failed marriages, neglected children, neglected health, and the kind of bank balance that makes accountants cringe.
The film Becoming Human, directed by the Cambodian filmmaker Polen Ly, was shown at SIFF this month. It tells the story of a spirit that watches over the remains of a movie theater. Every frame was taken into consideration, slow and melancholic. The obsession with it is palpable. A healthy work-life balance does not produce that level of attention. It originates from someone prepared to give up other lives to vanish into something for years. The cost of the film is exactly what makes it so beautiful.
Walking through galleries lately gives the impression that the discourse surrounding this is changing. Younger artists appear more willing to acknowledge that the numbers don’t add up, especially those who grew up during the pandemic and the subsequent AI wave. Working out of a former laundromat in Karachi, a painter I met last year called her profession “an addiction with better PR.” Exactly, she wasn’t kidding. She had been working on the same series for almost four years, and sometime in the second year, she stopped getting enough sleep.
The writer at the typewriter at dawn, the Van Gogh in the wheatfield, and the romantic version of all this conveniently omit the suffering. We recall the paintings. We forget the letters pleading for money and the brother who paid every bill. Yes, obsession is generative. Additionally, it is extractive. In hindsight, many artists regret not protecting their bodies, relationships, and the gradual accumulation of a typical life.
The current situation is complicated by the increased pressure to exhibit obsession in public. Visible output is rewarded by algorithms. The same systems that elevate the person posting time-lapses at midnight punish a painter who takes a year off to reflect. The product is now the obsession. That raises some concerns, but it’s still unclear how things will turn out in the long run.
Perhaps the most truthful statement is that obsession is neither a strength nor a weakness. It is a tool that cuts in both directions, just like any other sharp tool. The artists who seem to make it through it are usually the ones who discovered when to give up, frequently the hard way.
