Living, working, worrying, and loving in the South Bronx for over three decades now, I’m always bemused at all the exaggerated talk of art-making being such a risk and sacrifice best created within an arena of self and socially punishing loneliness. No. Art is all Privilege.
We vulnerable simply have a talent for wounds. Authentic vulnerability comes from an openness that in turn can only come from a position of extraordinary strength and wealthy experience of spirit. Beyond masochism and martyrdom, the gift of hurt is the ultimate armor, the force field and energy of makers.
Our vulnerability—when it’s not a delusion—is no risk. It’s communion.
It is red badge and scarlet letter worn all at once.
It is that ever amazing and dreadful Grace.