"But Henry Longed to Tell his own Story. The Ultimate Story."
I recently discovered Henry Darger. He was an incredibly reclusive unlearned artist and writer that was possibly mentally ill in one capacity or another. He basically locked himself in a small apartment room for 40 years, only leaving to work menial janitorial jobs and attend mass 3 times a day. He talked to no one, beyond a sentence or two here or there. If you asked him a question, he'd comment on the weather or his shoes, anything that wasn't remotely related to what was asked. He spent 10 years tracking the inaccuracy of weatherman predictions. Daily.
He wrote a 9-million-word epic, 16 times longer than War and Peace. It's about 7 prepubescent sisters, that have penises, who lead a war against child slavers in a fantasy world filled with hybrid creatures and Civil War era soldiers, and, surprisingly, it seems to read very, very well. Unsurprisingly the complete work was never published, but a 700-page adaptation was made in limited print, which now runs for $500-$1,000. I found it for about $80, though, and briefly considered buying it cheap to try to cut a profit on resale.
Anyway, I watched the documentary on him, and found myself very, very envious. Not in an isolationist sense; though I do like solitude, that level is way beyond me. But the ability to emerge entirely into your work. He worked a shitty job and didn't care, because it paid what bills he had. There's a real creative admiration, a purity of intent, striping of distraction. Only the art mattered.
Of course there's the trade-offs. I don't know how inspired his art can be, when he traced and reproduced images from magazines, let alone that his "original" work often looks like poor reproductions of 1940s magazine art. And don't get me wrong, I know such immersion into the art puts blinders up against editors and any chance of effective social influences.
But I sit and worry about the degree and a job and the bills and then I can "do" the creative stuff and know all the while how stupidly flawed the plan is. But Henry Darger just drowns himself in the art. Fuck the rest. The rest doesn't exist. Fame and recognition doesn't exist. Death will come; then let the ghosts have it.
[For some stupid reason, embedding YouTube won't work]
[Trailer]
[Part 1]
He wrote a 9-million-word epic, 16 times longer than War and Peace. It's about 7 prepubescent sisters, that have penises, who lead a war against child slavers in a fantasy world filled with hybrid creatures and Civil War era soldiers, and, surprisingly, it seems to read very, very well. Unsurprisingly the complete work was never published, but a 700-page adaptation was made in limited print, which now runs for $500-$1,000. I found it for about $80, though, and briefly considered buying it cheap to try to cut a profit on resale.
Anyway, I watched the documentary on him, and found myself very, very envious. Not in an isolationist sense; though I do like solitude, that level is way beyond me. But the ability to emerge entirely into your work. He worked a shitty job and didn't care, because it paid what bills he had. There's a real creative admiration, a purity of intent, striping of distraction. Only the art mattered.
Of course there's the trade-offs. I don't know how inspired his art can be, when he traced and reproduced images from magazines, let alone that his "original" work often looks like poor reproductions of 1940s magazine art. And don't get me wrong, I know such immersion into the art puts blinders up against editors and any chance of effective social influences.
But I sit and worry about the degree and a job and the bills and then I can "do" the creative stuff and know all the while how stupidly flawed the plan is. But Henry Darger just drowns himself in the art. Fuck the rest. The rest doesn't exist. Fame and recognition doesn't exist. Death will come; then let the ghosts have it.
[For some stupid reason, embedding YouTube won't work]
[Trailer]
[Part 1]