Sacrifice your Self at the Altar of your Art

You come with your dreams, your blazing youth and passion. You give your time, your money, your heart. You laugh, you cry, you hope and wait. Something has to break, right?

Something indeed does. I broke 2 months ago. I had a year to turn my broke ass music career into something of a self-sustaining business. I moved from being a solo acoustic folk act to a multi-instrumental live-looped improvising troubadour and refined a set to launch at NAF 2017. I knew something was wrong, though, and by the end of my fest run my tour-tired voice was reduced to a hiss. The unrelenting stab wound in my throat was confirmed as Reunke’s Edema. Medication and 2 months no singing. No work. No momentum. A stark window to the commitment I’d made a year prior.

A friend had offered to invest, and it was now obvious that I needed new non-vocal avenues. Enter Ableton Push and OCD. While devouring tutorials I enrolled in a masters degree at Rhodes with the hope that I would find some substance and stability in academia. Elevate the conversation from the bar to the gallery; from the patron to the grant. Maybe I could merge these worlds?

And then, a call to flow, to River Republic. Booked some time before, I now reluctantly threw together a far-too-late december tour and headed to the Disaster Area. I felt like gollum. Scrawny and translucent, chapped and blemished. I felt like a picture perfect crackhead. Usually when I feel I look crackesque, I have the security of some concealer to protect my ego from the sweat-soaking lights, immortalising phones and watchful gazes. But now it’s not in the bag. It’s not under the seat. Fuck. Models everywhere under the summer sun. I’ll have two tequilas, please.

And lo the ground did not open up to take m to hades with demon claws. Nothing changed. Except me. I’ve learnt my deepest life lessons through trauma, heartache and the lengthy recovery of my inner child. I thought I was made resilient and humbled by life. But in this last vestige of window-dressing, I had hidden the demon seed of my ego.

Stripped, I arrived in Cape Town more vulnerable than I’d ever been. Broke and broken with no more fucks to give and no way to hide my self-described downfall. My tower crumbled and with it the isolating spell that was my ultimate oppressor. I fell into the loving hands of friends. I think for the first time, I truly understood friendship and community. I’ve always held on to some control. Some unseen kernel where I could protect the least of myself. But this was a lesson in self love. That what you have to give is valuable in itself. That to be alive and inspired is seen and counts as an expression of gratitude. That there are forms of alchemy which sing from the air those jewels more precious than gold.

I performed more than I have in ages, simply for the joy of sharing creation with people. I stopped caring about the upfront, the door, the hat being passed. When I did it just ruined the experience. I stopped asking what was in it for me. I stopped hoping and waiting - I’ve always been here. There was always something “in it” for me. And with the new gifts of strength and fire from the dearest of peoples, I flew to the forest for a festival which elevated every stuttered breath into a flowing melody. A song unceasing and ancient.

So with the new year I de-registered from my masters - a decision which came with many bullets to bite. I’m moving to Cape Town. I don’t know where I’m going or how it’s going to work out. We have 90 days. I have faith but few expectations. And when I arrived at this position a phrase appeared out of the ashes -

“Sacrifice your self at the altar of your art.”

A burning call to being, albeit rather dramatic.

You can’t will a dam into rapids; you can’t beg a river to rest. Can’t burn winter fires as beacons, and keep warm while the dawn chills your breath.

I’ve stopped asking my art to provide. I understand now the arrogance of my request. Somehow self-preservation seems now to be the least of my goals. In all my attempts to find stability I neglected that chaotic child which somehow makes it out alive, leaving smiles on passing faces. That thing which drives me psychotic in a dayjob, but conjures tears from horses and hypnotizes bees, that frees hearts with folk songs and moves feet around fireside jams. The jester shaman, the joyous fool. The best I have to give.

I will appreciate any help and support along the way. If only to direct me where I’m wanted. I have a car and many mellifluous machines. I’m happy to share my skills and experience. You have couches, creators and curators, advice and advisors. If you have bits of cryptocurrency lying around in your car or stuck to bits of gum in your bag, I welcome any contributions to my juggling act (addresses below). If you need shmodels for shoots or know of castings around town, please keep me in the loop. Sound design, visual design, adverts and film composition. Hit me. I am going to hustle all the hustles to keep this creature creating.

Here’s a little video we made at the MIG 21 in Simon’s Town. “Cocoon” - apt, methinks. Hopefully more of these to come.

Thank you for everything.
I love you.

BTC - 18CFL7zmVMJFc5atTGKsetDadjBGyJGkjf
ETH - 0x4d4c76eaabc99ee7363d3a2575f92abee9073826