Bad Artist: Creating in a Productivity-Obsessed World - Softcover

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Nellwyn Lampert is a writer, editor, bookseller, and teacher. She is the author of Every Boy I Ever Kissed (Dundurn Press), and holds an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from the University of King's College. Nellwyn has written or edited for CBC First Person, She Does the City, The Huffington Post, and The Ex-Puritan Literary Magazine, among others. She has taught creative writing and communications, having served as an instructor at Seneca Polytechnic and King's Writing Workshops. As a bookseller, she is dedicated to helping children develop a love of reading, and finding the perfect book for every reader.

Pamela Oakley is a writer/editor/educator who has written for publications such as Canadian Running, Canadian Cycling, Today's Parents, several features in the Kingston Whig-Standard, and others. She currently teaches classes at Seneca Polytechnic, with a focus on food and love in literature. Pamela feels very fortunate to spend her time with the Penizen folk and being used as an exemplar for a bad artist.

Christian Smith holds a doctorate in the molecular and cellular biology of cancer from the University of Toronto, has over two decades of experience as a research scientist, and since 2006, has held the position of Manager of Research Operations at the world-renowned Brain Tumour Research Centre in Toronto. Compelled by an insatiable drive to learn new things and challenge himself, Christian returned to graduate studies and completed an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from the University of King's College in 2017. With luck and an incredible writing community at his back, Christian published his debut nonfiction book, The Scientist and the Psychic: A Son's Exploration of His Mother's Gift, with Penguin Random House Canada in December 2020.

Gillian Turnbull is the author of Sonic Booms: Making Music in an Oil Town (Eternal Cavalier Press). She holds a PhD in Ethnomusicology and an MFA in Creative Nonfiction. She has taught music at Toronto Metropolitan University and written for Chatelaine, Maisonneuve, The Walrus, and The National Post. She is the Director of Writing and Publishing at the University of King's College in Halifax.

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INTRODUCTION

“Art without commerce is a hobby.”

These words, spoken with much authority to a group of senior fine arts majors, are the kind of words that those who create art are unable to ignore. We fret over this idea—the thrum of this judgment never far from our thoughts—that if we are not engaged in commerce, then we are not professional; and if we are not professional, can we even call ourselves artists? Art of any form, by its very nature, cannot or should not be quantified, and yet writers measure pages and words; visual artists measure canvases completed; fibre artists measure pieces created all in an effort to appear “productive,” to perhaps justify this impulse to create. The notion of creating for art’s sake is then seen as hopelessly romantic and nearly indefensible. Of course one can engage in art, but it better be for money, for that is the only marker of success.  But was that professor’s pronouncement nothing more than an old, tenured windbag parroting the cultural norms and expectations that had, in fact, deemed him “successful”? In Western culture, it is almost impossible to separate professional from commercial, and so the artist is legitimized—distinguished from the hobbyist—by their ability to earn money. Professional art, then, is inherently capitalist.

The Bad Artist editors met in a different university arts classroom some years later. We belonged to different generational cohorts, had jobs ranging from waitress to research scientist, and had completely different reasons for wanting to pursue what is arguably one of the strangest academic honours: a Master of Fine Arts. Despite these differences, the ability to enrol in the MFA at the University of King’s College showed us that we had a few things in common: notably, we were privileged enough to exist in a sphere in which pursuing graduate work in creative writing was financially, practically, and systemically possible. Furthermore, entry into the program, regardless of our individual goals, implied a commitment to engage with our creative work in a professional context at least to some degree. And to that end, we have mostly “succeeded,” if success is measured in terms of contracts and remuneration. Some of us have traditionally published books, others have used their degree to land teaching jobs, none of us, though, is able to live off our art specifically, thus begging the question: How do we live for art if art can’t support our ability to live? More importantly, is that even the right question to ask?

This anthology seeks to be an antidote to the toxicity of the current productivity narrative as well as the negativity of those who will have you believe that you must justify your yearning for an artistic life. The germ of this idea came from co-editor Gillian Turnbull, who on a cold day during the pandemic met with contributor Linda Browne to talk about writing. They stood on either side of a picnic table in a park near their housing co-op discussing how best to organize their time as external pressures came down on them to work more, harder, quicker. Suddenly the sacred space of home was gone, the lines between home life and work life blurred. Whereas once Gillian had carved out the time after coming home from work to write, she now couldn’t justify logging off before bed. Nor, if she happened to find a moment to create, could she face yet more time onscreen.

Linda, still dealing with the effects that long Covid had had on her thinking and creative process, agreed. Add to this their domestic pressures—keep house, grow food, save money. Only someone with a partner who keeps home life going actually finds time to create, they joked. They both had artistic partners and shared responsibilities, and neither could understand how to implement the work model espoused by productivity experts like Cal Newport. There was no closing the office door to think, no segregating solo time for the purposes of creation. Someone needed to talk about this.

Before Gillian presented this idea to the collective, however, our fate had already been predicted. One slushy winter night in February 2019, our writing group—for that’s what we were at the time, a few of us from the mfa program who lived in Toronto and met regularly to workshop each other’s writing—sat around a table in the party room at Christian’s condo. We were pretty excited that night because Christian’s mother, Geraldine Stringer, the famous psychic and subject of his memoir would be joining us. Christian helped his mother into the room and got her settled in her chair. With an aura of authority that contradicted her frailty, she looked around the table and just began. No one was expecting a reading, but there we were, learning some surprising things from the woman who had spent a lifetime using her gifts to solve crimes, teach others how to tap into their own psychic abilities, and reassuring her son that it was safe for him to fly.

Gillian was to win awards; Pamela was “the dark horse” and would surprise everyone, especially herself; Nellwyn had been torn on which program to attend, which was true; and then, most surprisingly, Geraldine told us that we would go into business together, or maybe work on a book together . . . none of us can remember her exact wording. We would often joke around about opening a writing retreat, mostly because we all really wanted a writing retreat, but how could a group of people write a book together? Whether the book you are holding is the fulfillment of a prophecy, evidence of the power of suggestion, or a complete coincidence, it is a poignant tribute to the late, great Geraldine Stringer, and the manifestation of collective creative power.

In this anthology, you will hear from Canadian and international writers from a breadth of backgrounds and experiences—many whom identify as bipoc, women, lgbtqia2s+, neurodivergent, and disabled. These writers represent a body of creators whose lives are not proscribed by predictable work schedules or reliable support systems; they fit creating into the cracks of their lives, those unexpected windows of time, and through their generous stories, show us all how to keep creating—not producing—in the face of systemic barriers and entrenched white patriarchy.

Like we said, we arrived at King’s from different worlds and with different intentions.

For better or worse, Nellwyn has rarely experienced a distinction between art, work, and life. In her family of professional artists and art educators, drawing and singing and storytelling were like bread and butter. As a child, it probably would have seemed strange to Nellwyn if her godfather didn’t sing opera as they hiked their fly-fishing rods to the river. Making and teaching art professionally, full time, was not only possible but also demonstrably normal. Nellwyn was older than she would like to admit before she realized how anomalous this really is. It is painfully boring—not to mention obnoxious—to say that Nellwyn has always been a writer, but there is no other way to tell her story. She began in theatre, studying playwriting and devised theatre at York University before pursuing her mfa. Almost as soon as she landed at King’s and met the people who would become her co-editors, Nellwyn knew she was exactly where she belonged. Since then, she has had the privilege of working with an incredible group of literary folks as an author, editor, bookseller, and teacher. It was community and collaboration that drew Nellwyn to theatre as an emerging artist, and Bad Artist is an opportunity to bring art and work and life together again, in community.

For Pamela, the path to this anthology was...