Thoughts on darkness and light
Dostoevsky and King Krule—The suffering artist—Pain as creative fuel
Hi all,
In her book Quiet, Susan Cain points to research suggesting people come up with more creative ideas when they work alone:
“[E]vidence from science suggests that business people must be insane to use brainstorming groups. If you have talented and motivated people, they should be encouraged to work alone when creativity or efficiency is the highest priority”
I found the book to be fascinating validation that introverts, often more focused on doing instead of talking, are overlooked in a world that can’t stop doing the latter instead of the former.
Thank you,
Brendan
“I seem to sink lower // In biscuit town, in biscuit town // You're shallow waters, I’m the deep seabed // And I’m the reason you flow // I got more moons wrapped around my head and Jupiter knows”
“Biscuit Town”, King Krule (2017)
King Krule (real name Archy Marshall) is a difficult-to-classify British punk jazz / hip hop / indie rock singer with a husky Cockney accent and a gritty, melancholic demeanor. Yes, he smokes cigarettes.
In “Biscuit Town”, he seemingly slithers through post-industrial Bermondsey, London, stewing on past resentments and empty dreams. The music is dark and bleak but almost bittersweet in its authentic sketch of subterranean working-class life.
On another song, “Bermondsey Bosom (Right)”, King Krule and his father recite:
“Slipping into filth // Lonely but surrounded // A new place to drown // Six feet beneath the moon”
Jayson Greene of Pitchfork observes a crucial theme in these songs, all from King Krule’s 2017 album The OOZ. They acknowledge some crooked beauty in life’s struggle, even if it’s a disgusting climb out of the sewer itself.
“He sounds peaceful, even gentle. The world is a filthy, utterly debased place, his music suggests, but there are rewards of sorts for those determined to survive it.”
King Krule’s music carefully toes the line between darkness and light, chaos and order. He does not wallow in utter sorrow or anger but unearths beauty in what is considered dirty and ugly. His ability to appropriately balance dark and light, I’d argue, is what makes his art so relatable and so striking. In fact, I’d argue this applies across all art.
Billie Eilish (“Happier Than Ever”), Radiohead (“Creep”), Lana Del Rey (“Cinnamon Girl”), and Frank Ocean (“Nights”) all know how to toe the line between darkness and light (or chaos and order, if you will). Their music is often bittersweet and nostalgic, conveying difficult truths in a relatable manner. Their music genuinely reflects what it means to be richly human, to struggle each day—sometimes successfully—to survive and comprehend this chaotic and inscrutable world. Because their work is relatable, it’s real.
I’m less familiar with visual art, but Georgia O’Keeffe’s early urban pieces (such as City Night above) capture this same bittersweet, dark vs. light sensation.
Another excellent example comes from the writer Fyodor Dostoevsky. As he was starting his final and most acclaimed novel, The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoevsky’s three-year old son Alyosha died of epilepsy. Alyosha’s death substantially altered the course of the novel, which portrays severe themes of suffering, murder, morality and free will. Parsing through his own suffering, Dostoevsky named the hero of the novel, Alyosha Karamazov, after his own son. Through the novel’s 800+ pages, brother Alyosha impossibly struggles to heal his community and serve as the lone source of light in that dark, cold Russian town. Again, we run into that same mythic theme: light battling dark.
In my estimation, good art teaches us that it’s possible to have a healthy relationship with darkness and its associated pain and suffering. Good art even suggests darkness can be creative fuel to those open to facing and vanquishing it. The pain and suffering these artists endured was, unfortunately, nothing out of the ordinary: heartbreak, loss, failure, class resentment. But they transformed that pain and suffering into something relatable, real, and beautiful. Did they have a better option?
In Bittersweet, the author Susan Cain recommends we all absorb this important life-lesson from artists:
“Whatever pain you can’t get rid of, make it your creative offering—or find someone who makes it for you.”
This is much easier blogged-about or said than done, and some traumatic things are of course best never experienced at all. But some pain can’t be rightfully extinguished. You may have a more sensitive disposition or an allergy to the culture of “toxic positivity” or some fear of the future, with all its uncertainty. These are all examples of pain that you can’t get rid of and that can fuel action.
Fortunately, there are so many different ways we can use it. As Cain expands,
“We could write, act study, cook, dance, compose, do improve, dream up a new business, decorate our kitchens; there are hundreds of things we could do, and whether we do them “well”, or with distinction, is beside the point.”
I’d add that it’s even more important to do this consistently. On a Monday morning, it’s so tempting to see only darkness, feel that biting chill in the air or sense those anxious thoughts seeping into consciousness, and say, “I’m just going to stay in bed and not get up and work out or work on my project.” Cain urges us to be an artist—and embrace the darkness as a path towards light.
It is our responsibility as humans to do so.
Thanks for reading! I love when these thoughts lead to conversations with readers. Did you find anything interesting or surprising? Reply to me and let me know.