Amanda Palmer’s Emotion-Centered Aesthetic

There are a few major routes to artistic greatness:

A) You can have a natural talent, with things coming to you without any real need to work (think Mozart in Amadeus); B) You can practice until you meet your mythical 10,000 hours; or C) You can simply care more than others (which, far from being the easy way out, may in fact be the hardest of the three).

Obviously, these aren’t mutually exclusive—plenty of people have natural talent, work hard, and care a great deal; but it is easier for us to focus on the first two than the last. We are naturally either aristocrats who believe people have innate gifts or democrats who believe that people can achieve greatness if they practice hard enough. An aesthetic which focuses on emotion, however, can communicate more clearly and build a stronger participatory community. Art produced this way has a better chance at succeeding in an era of distributed artistic production and consumption.

Some styles of music rest mostly on artists “caring more” than on any particular skill. This is most obviously the case of punk—the musical genre in which a zine can publish three chords on its cover and tell its readers to “go start a band.“ What matters here is less technical skill but more an individual’s message and how much he or she cares about it.

With this emotion as a focus, great art can be produced quickly, and a genre can include all sorts of voices—even those lacking skills that are typically required. Angry, urgent messages can be more easily conveyed than in an artistic register where technique takes precedence.

Amanda Fucking Palmer (her actual stage-name) is a good example of the flexibility and openness that an emotion-forward aesthetic can offer. She was in the “dark cabaret” Dresden Dolls, writing songs about suicidal impulses (“Girl Anachronism”) and masturbation (or a disturbing, controlling relationship, “Coin-Operated Boy”) before striking out on her own and working hard to tap the energy of a fan base that she had built over the years of hard emotional and artistic work. She then went on to produce several fun albums, including the catchiest, least trivializing song about date rape you’ve heard (Oasis, complete with an awesome music video).

The rawness of Amanda Palmer’s work is a reflection of herself and the emotion at the core of her artistic identity. In her recent memoir/self-help book Art of Asking, she focuses on vulnerability as key to her artistic philosophy. This emotional openness invites a reciprocal openness from others, which solicits the free emotional flow and aid that helps make art possible.

This vulnerability and willingness to be less than perfect enabled Palmer to put together a tribute album to David Bowie in a matter of weeks. By tapping the talent of her friends, working like crazy (with an infant, no less), and ignoring minor imperfections, she could produce a powerful and emotionally significant album. In a way, she would rather be creating and communicating than perfecting.

Palmer can likewise put together a show—what she calls a ninja gig—with plenty of headlining (and a few non-headlining) acts in a week or two because of the emotional and artistic connection that she has fostered with her fans and a broader artistic community. The fact that she sings about suicide, abuse, and masturbation in ways that connect with people (and aren’t simply morbid or maudlin) means that she can succeed in an age that values authenticity and vulnerability.

Virtuosity in music isn’t Palmer’s goal—if it had been, she freely admits to having missed that boat. She is a skilled pianist, but there are many skilled pianists, and she calls herself a mediocre ukulele player. This prevents some people from enjoying her music as much as they might other, more technically skilled artists. But it also means that her calls for artistic participation carry weight, since hers is an example of a participatory ethos. A song like “Ukulele Anthem,” which encourages everyone to create art (by playing the titular instrument) sounds like music I could make, so I believe its message.

Palmer’s aesthetic approach mirrors her commercial one. Since she is participatory and emotion-focused in her art, she makes every effort to include her fan base in her cultural production itself—though crowdsourcing the funding for albums; recruiting talent for shows; and seeking help and advice at every stage of an artistic project (such as recently asking twitter for a machete for sunrise photoshoot in LA, which her fans were able to provide).

Both Palmer’s art and her method of creating it are rooted in emotion. She doesn’t make art through corporate power structures but by a personal relationship with her fans built on trust and shared emotion (and facilitated by technology). This doesn’t eliminate economy or money (she doesn’t live in a world where rent magically doesn’t need to be paid) but causes it to rest on a foundation of relationship rather than contract.

I still love flamboyant, over-produced, and studied pop as much as the next guy—the best example of the second, democratic, kind of greatness we have. Our pop stars can achieve something magnificent because they work so hard, and the work is evident if we have the ears to hear. The gloss of high-sheen perfection is worth something. Still, there is a particular place for a rawness in an aesthetic to match with a rawness of content, highlighting jagged emotion. A song that lacks rough edges wouldn’t be able to do the emotional work of a harsh, heartfelt, simple melody.

Even though there are several styles of artistic greatness, all of which have their own virtues, I find myself continuing to return to artists who prioritize emotional honesty. Though there is no excuse for emotional sloppiness masquerading as art, a feeling-focused aesthetic can, as it has in Amanda Palmer’s case, serve the artistic material exceedingly well and speak powerfully to a broad audience.

Image by Manfred Werner via Wikimedia Commons.