Shoreditch: Why do we avoid something the moment it becomes well-known?

It is an interesting phenomenon to watch the youth community and the art community converge. There are Internet phenomenons that become so fad-like that it is an affront to the young culture to disagree with them. There are also artistic movements that share a certain vision, although those lines are drawn less clearly nowadays. Still, the moment something enters too clearly into the mainstream, the moment your aunt who has no artistic vision starts mentioning images and locations, both groups become completely averse to it.

Shoreditch is an area in East London that has transformed over the last 15 years. It went from being like the surrounding area of Islington, run-down and made up of mainly immigrant families, to a vegan, cigarette smoking haven of people in their early 20s. It has now been denounced as no longer being as cool since many people know about it. Ignoring the obvious gentrification and wealth issues, this seems to be a popular consensus. But while walking through East London, it seems like Shoreditch is still fun. The clubs are cool, the coffee shops have clever names and intriguing interior designs, and the restaurants are well themed.

Why does something lose a level of enjoyableness simply because others are taking part in it?
While the pizza craze, where every person seems to revel in the fact that they could eat half of a pizza in one sitting, has yet to wane, enjoying certain artists’ music seems to hinge on their notoriety. Why would one stop supporting an artist simply because they have gathered other supporters? Wouldn’t you want to continue bolstering their art? This is where I see a main dilemma. How can we expect people to stick by our own art when we, young artists, seem to be repelled by anything that has a platform? Why are we only attracted to art in dark corners?

Someone’s art is not of a lesser value since it connects to a wider audience. It is important to question how someone’s message reached that many without being watered down, but it seems more dangerous and toxic to throw something out simply because the follower count has gotten too high. There is a lot of senseless art that receives little recognition because of its poor quality, not because of mainstream agendas. Be wary of why we stray from the well-trodden path simply because we see footprints.

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I get this question a lot. As if I should have explained, when I first met them, that I do, indeed, write with my left hand. That, yes, I have a bump on my ring finger because no one taught me how to write correctly and I constantly drag ink across the side of my palm. Many people comment on the connection between left-handedness and the arts— we’re said to use the right side of our brain more, which has areas that incline us towards the arts. I never thought much about my writing, and how I am part of a special 10% of the world’s population, because I knew I was represented in the arts. We’re special, right? We’re natural talents, or something.

All my thinking about my handedness made me wonder about representation: do we always feel represented in the arts? Do we feel like we have a place, or voice, to be seen and heard? As a lefty, yes, we’re everywhere. Handedness is honestly not a basis for separating people, but I think it speaks for the bigger picture. There are many people of many disenfranchised groups that do not feel represented in the arts world. They do not see people who look like them, grew up like them, or understand their work like them. They do not see young people who have worked their whole lives through art schools, endless auditions, and tears to be where they are.

So, instead of this getting us upset, and frustrated, and maybe even making us question whether there is room for us, stop and look around. Look at yourself, and other likeminded artists. This is your call to action. Do not ask for room and representation, demand it. Even better, offer yourself for representation. Further amplify your art. Just because there are not people in the galleries that look like you does not mean that there can’t be. The directors may keep getting similar scripts thrown at them, so offer yours. Offer your intellect, your diligence, and your ability to write a story that no one else can express so eloquently.

Representation matters and is deserved, so do not feel embarrassed to ask for it, or, as said, to demand it. To require it. There is room. I am currently listening to the Hamilton soundtrack, aware of how these actors and actresses were never before given the opportunity to tell this story with their own voices, or with their own music. But here they are. Demanding and commanding space and applause. And that, I think, is what our creative world is all about.

Photo credit: Mona Lisa Foundation

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There are many plants in the square. Ferns. I wish I knew all their names. I think it would make me feel more at home here. I would walk through the gates and say hello to the different families of foliage, gossiping with the squirrels. When the wind blows I imagine I can hear Grandmother Willow telling me that these are ‘winds of change.’ I am a hand-me-down sweater made of all my cultural experiences and societal knowings. None of me is only mine, and yet so much belongs to me. I feel no ownership over the grass and greens and yet a strong affinity exists.

The leaves are not yet changing here. Only a few go yellow or brown and then fly to the paths. I wish they would redden and blossom— like a late in life crisis, headed out soon and yet just beginning their worldly travels. A second come-to-life. A celebration of history and experience. This is how I wish the colors to seep into the leaves, first creeping in from the stem in creams and yellows and then recreating themselves into flames of blood orange, crimson, and classic red. The trees would stand defiant at the sun, coaxing it to the compare its setting hues to their vibrancy. All at once, like a couple with nothing to lose, like a child’s first leap off the diving board, they would flip and spin until they landed, giggling, in the softened dirt. This is the freedom I want for the trees.

Mother Nature and I aren’t the only ones in the square. Young couples sit on the benches, and a black dog runs in and out of the fountain. Many people sit alone and read. It is a sort of isolated community. A woman approaches the bench, my bench, and asks if she can join me. She tells me it’s her sister’s birthday and this is her bench. I watch as she ties a bundle of balloons around the back of the bench, places a card on the seat, and pops a bottle of champagne. She says she would have offered me a glass but for her lack of cups. Her sister had eaten her lunch there every day before she died.

Disappeared. Left. The bench bore her name and years, giving room for others to enjoy their meals in her place. I wonder how many people had used this park as their personal space before moving on. I ran away from that bench. I do not sit on it anymore. I like to think about this woman unknown and keep the bench free for her. Now I sit on a bench nearby, gazing as couples take her place. Day in and day out. She’s been added to my sweater, and I think she makes the grounds feel a bit more like a home.

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Ex Locum: Latin for “out of place.”
Ex Patria: Latin for “out of country, or fatherland.”

I am an expat, or, if I am not one yet, I will be considered one in the coming years. I am purposefully and noticeably out of place— away from home, away from my culture, away from my people. I never liked this term because I thought it was mainly used by snobby Americans living in Europe who have extremely popular and cliché Instagram pages. I considered myself to be distinct: I was not tied down to my culture or geography and my nationality did not trump every other possible descriptor of me as a person.

Yet, maybe, the term has more merit than I have given it. I am out of my place. I am a young woman studying in London, away from all my family and familiar street signs or buildings. Many talk about arts connectivity, about how it has helped them gain lifetime friends and fellow artists. It manifests into a community of its own. And yes, this community is powerful and interconnected and worth growing. I’d like to address an undervalued side of art, though. I have used art to ground myself in my surroundings and in my own person.

Beginning at seven years old, I started taking classes at a local Eastern European theatre company. My drama instructor told my mom she thought I would be too fragile for the industry because I couldn’t take criticism well. I remember the first heartbreak poems I wrote at 11 years old, fresh off my “boyfriend” dumping me. Flash forward eight years and I still cannot escape this concept of human fragility. I think it’s visible in every character: actors and writers alike fill their characters with doubts and weaknesses. This reality, albeit a separate one, ate away at my own insecurities by showing me the imperfections of everyone else. Now, I am a fortress brimming with foliage and flowers. This wall may make me less receptive to others’ art, but it has cultivated my own.

Yes, we are a community. Yes, we flourish under the nurturing light of others. I am not advocating for separating yourself completely, however, do be selective. Not everyone’s art is worth taking in or allowing to affect yours. Trust the direction in which you are moving.

London constantly reminds me of this. We move together, but separately. We walk in the same direction, but end up taking different lifts. Sitting in Russell Square, writing about how I am not an original but rather a sum of pieces, juxtaposes with the fact that I am isolated on the bench, only spinning these ideas through my personal cotton-candy maker. I choreograph for groups; yet value every part as a solo. A play is best when shared, but artistic sovereignty is respected.

Allow yourself to be uncomfortable and in the ‘wrong’ place. Create a spot for yourself, even if you have to shove. You may find that this spot is exactly what you needed. This spot was precisely where you were supposed to land. Decorate your spot with art, dance through your little home with jazz in the background, and write as if you could not eat until a page is finished. Find yourself through your art. Discover your own nooks and crevices. The only true way to figure out what you stand for and what your art is worth is to put yourself in a place where the wind is blowing directly in your face.

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