“Artists as trusted mentors are very few. If and when I live near one again, I won’t take it for granted. It’s as important as the weather.”
Me, via Twitter
In my short time on earth, I’ve taken a lot of aimless drives. If any significant amount of time without such a jaunt has passed, I feel all the more aware of the necessity for these escapes the moment I accelerate across the open road. It is in these moments that I recapture a sense of purpose for the day, or the year. I’m able to recollect in a way that renders all the workings of life below water, and the brief time I spend driving away—or around—signifies a quick surging gasp, as I breach for air. For a few minutes, I’m above the surface, I see things for what they are. The barriers and difficulties of my situation are recapitulated, and I’m able to author my thoughts with the perspective of literal distance. I often conclude such drives feeling able to dive back into the narrative and swim, rather than drown.
Sometimes, I don’t have a single distinct thought, and sometimes I speak my thoughts aloud, arriving at conclusions and declarations. In any case, these drives affect my person in a fundamental way. My wife refers to various experiences with a phrase that is apt. Something as brief as my hand sliding across hers, or a bath, or a precise deep-tissue kneading of her back is what she will invariably describe as that which “feels important.” There are things we can do for ourselves, or for others, that keep us from sliding into lost.
In a similar fashion, finding a way to cultivate a relationship with someone I value as a mentor is something that feels important in every instance, be it a beer and nothing more or a rare, momentum-changing conversation.
Like the drives I take, these experiences are rich, reflective, and calming. They’re rich because I’m with someone I admire, they’re reflective because I’m naturally examining myself through a prism formed by the person I wish to emulate, and they’re calming because these relationships and experiences remind me that there is a distinct thing about who I am, and who I’m trying to be. And I ought to pay attention to that.
I’ve never hungered for the circle of many. I often find myself wishing one of my good friends could be great, or that I had fewer friends altogether. I’d rather have one of those rare, focused and challenging friendships with a mentor than have several friends that do no such thing. In terms of being an artist, willing critical voices are incredibly important and often hard to find. They are sustenance. But they also need to be trusted, and that’s always going to be a difficult find.
Right now, my two most trusted artist mentors live far away. I recognize now that the time I’ve spent near them is a gift that stays with me in all my inward examinations. The idea of having one permanently near now strikes me as so fantastic that I think it’s a reasonable element of life for any artist making a move to consider. Do I have a mentor there?
On the intermittent day in which I complete a correspondence with a mentor, in which we are updated of one another’s lives, thoughts, fears, and progress in the studio, I feel something that isn’t all that different from the drives I take. I’m able to be in touch with the personification of my goals, and to examine my current state with perspective by filing a report with that person. When I’m without a mentor nearby, and when I’ve failed to keep in touch with those that are further afield, it’s as though I’m without a car to take me out above the surface. I’m then aware that I am missing something important.
And missing something important feels just as important as fulfilling these great needs. You can see how important it is in those that aren’t led by some such thing within or beside them. Though I hate knowing I am missing something (be it the opening credits or a friendship), it’s better than not knowing something is missing.