The Japanese painter Korin, who lived until 1716, is famous for having blazed a trail “that seemed designed to thwart any would-be followers” (Mizuo Hiroshi, Edo Painting, 1972). Followers here refers to adopters of Korin’s style and/or students of his technique, but it can also mean one’s champions and enthusiasts. And there, in a nutshell, is the secret to being remembered as an artist of originality: express such peculiarity as to be inimitable even by your own biggest supporters, and also don’t give your admirers a second thought. That’s not advice that’s necessarily easy to adopt in a flash, but might not its achievement be the key to securing one’s legacy? To be unattainable elsewhere β that’s the definition of “exclusive,” and surely it’s a goal for any artist. Another definition of “exclusive” is “excluding,” as Korin did his would-be followers. What a solitary path! But that’s no surprise, is it? Every true artist is a trailblazer, and the way is narrow when we stand upon the trembling margin of a new world.
What is effortless, actually, is finding one’s singular artistry. That’s because it’s always at the core of your very being β it doesn’t have to be discovered but rather unfettered by externally imposed overlays that may be masking it. Just as no two singing voices are identical, every artistic vision is one-of-a-kind, as long as it doesn’t lazily emulate those who came before. It’s inevitable for an artist to have idols, and those idols very likely direct one toward one’s own singularity (meaning that if you resonate with another artist, it’s because there are aspects in that person’s work that are stepping stones on your own path toward originality). But consider someone like filmmaker Brian De Palma making blatantly Hitchcockian thrillers β De Palma homages his hero, which is a lovely gesture, but isn’t it Hitchcock himself who will be remembered as the true original? The two most effortless ways to untangle yourself from your models and free your voice are to pay attention to your dreams and to meditate (if not formal meditation then the Zen practice of “just sitting” quietly for periods of time).
To cite an example close to home, as an electronic musician with the band Neons Gone Mad, I didn’t wish to blur into the background of all my biggest influences, so I sought to create a hitherto unknown genre characterized by a haunted grandfather clock connected by a thread of cobweb to a Tesla spirit radio. Clockwork rhythms, eerie bells, and ghostly voices from the aether accompany synthesized melodies and lyrics representative of my idiosyncratic angle on life. The overall effect is unique, instantly recognizable, and nigh impossible to be imitated. To be clear, this new genre wasn’t forced simply to be something weird and different. The inspiration for it came naturally, as the genre simply distilled several of my interests (time-bending, Tesla inventions, Spiritualism, ghost detection, experimental soundscapes, mechanical/industrial noise, synthpop) into a theretofore unknown synthesis. Like the work of David Lynch, Neons Gone Mad isn’t for everyone, but we’ve been commissioned by artists around the world for haunted clockwork remixes, like Sigfus of Denmark, Archmage Band in Australia, Bearcraft in the United Kingdom, and Wunderfish in Hawaii. Yes, we’re still working on “don’t give your admirers a second thought.” It’s a process.
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