Come back to yourself: an invitation

This quarter’s theme on Inciter Art is: come back to yourself. Have you been caught in the riptide of productivity culture? Stuck in an infinite doomscroll? Now’s the time to come back to every part of yourself: artist, worker, child, caretaker, rebel, fighter. Parts we can often leave by the wayside in the name of practicality or duty. For the next three months, we’ll be navigating the choppy waters of technology, attention, breaking up with your art job — in other words, by your side as you rediscover your true north and set sail.

🌫️ when your self is never finished

Right around the time we decided on this theme, I began reading Light by Eva Figes, brought to my attention by Dr. Rebecca Marks’ substack The Culture Dump. In her shortlist of three must-reads for art lovers, she described Light as “essentially an Impressionist painting in the form of a 150-page novella.

Light interplayed with Impressionism, and the broader world of painting and visual art, through both subject and style. The subject: a day in the life of Claude Monet and the people orbiting him. The style is harder to define, and I can’t help drawing a parallel to the theme. You may know exactly what “yourself” is composed of. Coming back to it might not be as easy.

🌊 coming back to yourself when you’re always changing

When I first sat down to write this, the sun was out and a light breeze provided a nice complement, and for about three minutes everything was perfect until a conversation about artificial intelligence from the next table began to encroach. My grief for the past three minutes turned to annoyance, so I did what most people do nowadays: plugged my ears and tried to tune out the noise with new noise.

Twenty-year old me would’ve hit play on Refused’s The Shape of Punk to Come to transform my environment into something electric, exhilarating, with an attitude and a bone to pick. Ten years later I might’ve instead reached for Ornette Coleman’s The Shape of Jazz to Come, whose innovation and sonic reaches would’ve catapulted me to a higher plane.

Those two early versions would’ve been surprised to see the shape of things that came, with forty-year old me opting for Ernest Hood’s Neighborhoods, a 1975 album that suffused zither and synthesizer melodies with field recordings of Hood’s native Portland, Oregon. The seemingly unavoidable conversation about AI slowly evaporated, replaced by the distant voices of children buying ice cream at the corner store.

I journeyed through the mosh pits and jazz clubs of the city to a house in the woods, where I hear the not-so-distant voices of my own children. I sometimes have trouble recognizing myself in the mirror: older, slower, and in some ways, more sensitive. It makes sense to me that the art that speaks to me at this moment is also older, slower, and in some ways, more sensitive. Yet I still feel the spirit of punk and jazz in the capillaries of my circulatory system.

🕊️ peeling away and taking with

The other side of the theme is: where did you go? Where did you drift? Where are you now that makes you want to come back? It may be a bit more nuanced and layered. You may rightfully feel proud of your journeys and excursions, the lessons you’ve learned, the things you’ve pocketed to bring back home to display. But what burs have stuck to your socks that have prickled your ankles for too long?

Think about your own odyssey back to yourself, and leave a comment below: What is one thing you want to peel off? What is one thing you hope to keep carrying?

Join us these next three months in our collective journey through honest conversations, intimate questions, existential spirals, and work horror stories. Pack a lunch and stay hydrated!