levers that have grown rusty

I’m not sure if it helps anyone—I’m not sure if it even helps me, but for the past couple years, whenever the world has felt especially topsy-turvy, I’d think well, everyone is a loser right now. Because everyone is a loser. The world’s richest man. The president. Everyone…

Everyone in culture industries. Those kind of shadowy figures, “producers” and “execs,” the kind you’d hear about from the 80s or 90s or even the 00s or 10s, who could ruin your career if you crossed them—who has that power today? Perhaps some people have constructed Good Bye, Lenin!-style but evil simulations of 2003 or 1983, and believe they still have that power now, but you can only lie to yourself for so long. Like I said, I don’t know if it helps, but I have found myself thinking about power differently lately as I realize there are no kings, if there ever were—just people who represent ideas with purchase over the minds of others, with hands on various levers to reach these minds. Levers that have grown rusty.

Some of the fake kings have money. Many are burning to the ground their own industries—the sources of what had been their clout and prestige to weed out what they call “wokeness,” even though, ultimately, they couldn’t care less if sitcoms are diverse or not, not even about pronouns. What they fear is what every rich person fears: justice and accountability. They have been so coddled, so isolated from the world, that sarcastic tweets from random people felt to them like the blade edge of a guillotine. Wrath toward the greater public—a public they must court if not serve, has come back to them in the end, as voided cultural capital and waning influence.

The remaining culture industries with budgets will cut checks to the worst possible people. Those who cared have left or were forced to leave, and the ones who remain have stopped pretending. Meanwhile, as AI slop enters institutional spaces, in the absence of curatorial instincts, exhibition is reduced to merchandizing.

There’s actually a fucking Beeple exhibition at LACMA right now. I went to LACMA to walk around, to escape the cynical world represented in the noisy apps on my phone. It was a little depressing to see it there, taking up space, expressing nothing but empty spectacle. When that same room, containing a work of art instead of a gag or bit (or whatever you call a Beeple), could offer solace, an experience of connection and meaning. Something that can change your life or make you think or take you out of this gray world for even a minute or two.

For those of us who care about art and books and, at some cost, both the continued production of new work and survival of what has been made, this is a challenging time. But from my tiny perch here, I encourage anyone reading this to stop playing rigged games. The first step is in realizing what’s fake is fake. Why legitimize institutions set on dismantling their own institutional memory? What is the money worth to you when you count all the strings attached? What can you do with your time and attention and care other than fight for charred crumbs among people who might otherwise be your friends?

As an author, I’d like nothing more than to write another book and throw it out in the world, letting it land where it lands; but finding readers doesn’t work that way. Maybe it does for like Rachel Kushner or Sally Rooney, but for the rest of us, there are various broken ecosystems to navigate. An emerging writer has to think about how they want their book published, an emerging filmmaker has to think about distribution, an artist has to think about gallery representation and how to engage with institutions. Neglecting what choices you do have, is where the despair sets in.

There aren’t many choices or great choices, but these are still choices. I think of it as part of the process now, finding the natural way forward for the work.

What does it take of me, with as little as I have, to stick to my principles, to endure when times are lean and hard?—and not just endure on my own, but to give back. Because everyone has to give back. Culture doesn’t happen alone.

Thanks for reading.