Explaining Rap to Racist People Through the Rothko Effect

I once considered the majority of abstract art to be somewhat unapproachable. I failed to understand the creations’ origins and was therefore frustrated by the confusion that it provoked. As someone who used to aspire to the creative field of music, the purpose or significance of certain works of abstract art was perplexing. Why are some people allocating attention to things that are so apparently simple and juvenile? Similarly to my negativity towards abstract art, I wasn’t keen to approach mainstream music with an open mind. Because I failed to identify the effort within some foreign mediums and expressions of art, I would therefore write it off.

My perspective has recently changed in this matter (ironically due to a previously unexplored medium of creative expression). I watched a play titled Red, which profiles the creative life and motivations of Mark Rothko, an abstract expressionist painter who reached his height of popularity and acclaim during the mid-20th century. I offer my praise to its playwright, John Logan, for authoring the single most compelling and convincing argument for the importance of abstract art (and art in general) that I have seen to date. 

Rothko’s work was often criticized by the public for the same reasons that I have found abstract art difficult to approach. In the play, he describes these criticisms, objecting to the shallow behavior of those who buy his art. He speaks from the buyers’ perspective, saying “‘Oh, don't make me look at it! I never look at it! It's so depressing!’ ‘All those fuzzy rectangles, my kid could do that in kindergarten, it’s nothing but a scam, this guy’s a fraud.’” Through the imitation of his consumers, Rothko reveals the extent to which he feels self-conscious and fragile regarding the acceptance of his art. He feels as if his paintings are merely destined to be “overmantles”, or accessories that will never receive the pensive attention that Rothko thinks they should. These anxieties are potently expressed through the entirety of the dramatic work, where Rothko’s third line of dialogue at the very beginning of the play is as follows: “These pictures deserve compassion and they live or die in the eye of the sensitive viewer”. He demands that his work get the proper respect. His desire for people to be compassionate and sensitive toward his paintings implies their vulnerable (and even fragile) nature. He recognizes that without thoroughly studying his art and pondering its significance, its intellectual potential is dead in the water. Rothko doesn’t necessarily want his art to be understood, but rather treated with the dignity of a creation that utilized diligence, dedication, and effort in its completion. This is because art does not have to be understood in order to be appreciated. On the other hand, approaching his complex and pain-laden expression with reverence and respect is of the utmost importance when consuming his creative works. This is necessary for one to experience an emotional reaction in the aftermath. I furthermore argue that the emotion evoked by a piece of art is of equal importance to the colors and shapes on the canvas. I kept this notion in mind when perusing Rothko’s works online, where I encountered a painting that elicited a true emotional reaction.

Untitled (Black on Gray)

For me, this painting evokes a feeling of emptiness– of desolation. There exists a depth in the gray portion that makes me feel like I am traveling an endless journey, only to be faced with black on the horizon for eternity. Considering this scenario sends a shiver down my spine. Of course, this is a reaction that I had only after I took a bit of time to interpret and internalize it. That allowed me to realize how intricate the intentions behind this painting really are, despite its rather simple composition. This is the “Rothko Effect”; just because something appears to be rather straightforward and pedestrian does not mean that its origins are uncomplicated. 

Here’s where we transition into our argument about rap music. I have heard people purport that rap is not “real” music because the vocal performances are often amelodic. Music is often defined as consisting of the following three elements: melody, harmony, and rhythm. Therefore, people discard rap because they cannot identify a melodic element within it. Those who believe this also exhibit the view that rap is too simple and monolithic for it to be worthy of cultural attention (a similar stance to those who scoff at Mark Rothko’s art). Although I suspect that this view possesses racially biased undertones, I’ll choose to refute the actual stated argument that I have often heard.

Like Rothko’s art, rap can suffer in the wake of the desire for palatable consumption– the desire to engage with art that doesn’t require thought, interpretation, and self-reflection to be wholly experienced. Therefore, if someone refuses to consider rap as music, it is probably due to their unwillingness to approach its cultural and experiential origins. My favorite rap artist, Kendrick Lamar, creates music that I consider to be poetry set to beats. He details his struggle-laden background through lyrics that are both clever and symbolically nuanced. However, this may not be something that people identify upon listening to his music for the first time. Admittedly, I’ve had to use Urban Dictionary a few times in order to better connect with his art, but have come to the realization that his music is an expression of universally human pain and internal conflict at its core. Yes, there are self-indulgent and shallow rap songs, but this is the case within every genre of music. If I’m ever interrogated by the FBI, they should know that all they have to do in order to squeeze me is by playing copious amounts of Morgan Wallen: “I’ll do anything you ask! Just don’t play ‘Born With A Beer In My Hand’ again!”

To summarize, the portrayal of Mark Rothko in Red suggests the necessity of discernment when consuming his art. I believe that this principle equally applies to how we should approach every form of creative media, including and especially rap music. Even if the central themes expressed in the lyrics is foreign, we should all strive to find the humanity within it. With this effort will arise heightened levels of compassion and sensitivity within us all. As we consider experiences that are different from our own, maybe the lofty objective of “understanding” will finally be obtainable. We will seek the ability to interpret the motivations of those who we previously alienated and garner empathy for those unlike us, finding unforeseen middle grounds with our fellow humans. 

The Learned Skill of Creativity

No one is born creative. Creativity only arrives in the aftermath of experiences. If one has no experiences, no art (neither cohesive nor unintelligible) will ever materialize. One may see perfectly fine as a child, but has to learn the skill of observation. Likewise, a child may hear every frequency from 20 Hz to 20 kHz, but may be poor in the discipline of intent listening. Thirdly, one may identify every sense and sensation for eternity, but must reap a true bounty from their experience to express and share it (either with themselves or with the world).

The generosity of sharing one’s imaginative spirit, whether expressed to an audience of one or one million, is virtuous if the creative individual acts as if the other possibility were true. With no notoriety and full contentment, any artist may find comfort and pleasure in the act of creating. Nothing more. Those who share their creations with an audience other than themselves would be suited to not tarnish and dilute their creative spirit in the Sisyphean climb towards the unreachable peak of pleasuring everyone else. Thus, a more creatively-inductive approach would be to ensure the absence of the joy-feeding parasite that is comparison. To play, draw, sing, write, dance, and speak, one finds humility in the acknowledgement of their flaws, both immanent and idiosyncratic. No art exists without the inevitable consequence of blemished spirits, broken bones, and bloody noses.

I feel the need to clarify my seemingly unoriginal and cliche belief that “all bad things happen for a reason” or that art cannot be created without suffering. I believe an appropriate revision would be…

All events, mortifying and humorous, triumphant and gut-wrenching, can result in a lesson learned that benefits the recipient of life’s proverbial dealing of cards. However, one’s abstinence to playing their hand and the rash decision to flip the poker table in anger and frustration only makes possible two things: stagnation and regression in its aftermath.

This is obviously less concise, but what can the seven-word phrases, all tirelessly beaten to death within our daily lexicons, really identify about the infinite nuances of being human? Life may push us in every direction, but our resistance to being moved steals the ability to explore the expanse of opportunity– to strengthen one’s personal identity that arrives in the wake of adversity.

The act of creating and the zeal for advancing our own minds draw nearer the connection to our most abstract selves. The ability to move, to think, and to discover is to be completely unique, as well as quintessentially similar to all fellow humans. Isn’t that the ultimate objective of creativity– to become more human?

Some believe that creativity is the closest we come to transcending humanity and the groundling misfortunes of being mortal. Within a theological standpoint, the existence of the universe began with an act of divine creation. Biblically, the fall of man into permanent imperfection began with the desire to consume (the forbidden fruit), which is arguably the antithesis of creativity.

However, it is my opinion that this act of consumption was not purely driven by exploitative or primal desires. In addition to what one might call “sin”, an exceedingly important explanation for this crucial disobedience arises from curiosity. Curiosity, or the need to explore and interpret the universe, is also a quintessential human trait. As mentioned before, the act of experiencing, observing, listening, touching, and feeling is what breeds the capacity for creativity.

Reiterating the theological context for our interpretation of creativity, I believe that the flame of inventiveness could not glow as it does without an initial separation from all that is divine and perfect. Reflecting on the innate flaws of our humanity, our separation from all this is divine is to provide oxygen to a rising flame. If our curiosity and subsequent creative interpretations of experience make us unholy, then I don’t want to be divine.

The excitement of exploration is one of my favorite parts of existing. I have the pleasurable certainty that I will never be finished in my journey in adapting and edifying my true identity, as I will be incomplete until I am laid in the ground. Subsequently, exploring this “incomplete” wisdom is to join together all parts of my own soul.

Whether we draw the desire to create from a mortal or divine sensibility, we must ignite that drive from our participation in being human.

The Hustle Gene

“You can’t be serious”, I remember thinking. We were gathered in the university’s largest lecture hall– all students, contestants, and challengers, revving our engines at the starting line in a race to conquer the music industry. In that moment, 85 energetic freshmen, who were otherwise typically in pretty high spirits, were dead silent. We had heard something that shook every single one of us to our cores. Having been college freshmen for all of one week, we thought we knew everything. We trusted our intuitions because we all knew– knew– that music was our destiny. However, at this very moment, many of us stopped believing it.

You could have cut your foot on the sheer magnitude of shattered innocence in that room. All 85 of us were contained in this grand auditorium, corralled into this hall, so a truth could be laid upon us. The truth was as follows: “Statistically, only 25% of people will ‘make it’ in this industry. Realistically, none of you will.”

I’ve since pondered the true meaning of the phrase “make it”. I’ve therefore discovered just how much of a vague statement it is. What does “making it” even mean? Is it a hundred-thousand listeners? A million? How much money and influence should I have before I’m allowed to admit that I’ve “made it”? Never. I guess that was probably the point. It forced all of us, in perfect unison, to judge ourselves and each other harshly. It opened up new cavities of insecurity and animosity within all of us. Not one of us would simply remain friends from that moment on– we were now collaborators, business partners, and most importantly of all, opposing competitors.

What’s interesting is that this “25% concept” was relayed to all of us only once, by the professor at the beginning of the year. Every time the concept was discussed afterward was because we, as the students, kept it alive. Everyone knew the taboo of being called “part of the 75%”. It meant that someone thought you were going to fail (also a vague term).

The way I see it, we all perceived that we had only two choices from this point forth: dedicate every last strand of our effort and “make it”, or fail. I cannot emphasize how much space there is between those two concepts, which are both subject to interpretation in the first place. Because we were impressionable teenagers, this piece of information was fed into the binary processing system within us all.

We would think, “Am I going to succeed? Is my best still good enough? Do I have the ‘hustle gene’?” Oh, the “hustle gene”? I’m so glad you asked. The hustle gene is an apparent innate disposition for a superior work ethic, and therefore, success. We claimed this phrase in the exact same manner in which we had claimed words like “making it” and “failure”. It taught us that if we did not achieve this narrow and nearly-impossible benchmark of success, then we had failed– and we had failed because we didn’t try hard enough.

If one doesn’t ultimately support themselves with the music industry, there are literally a million potential causes. There are infinite factors outside anyone’s control, and any or all of those factors can result in an unsalvageable setback. However, this isn’t always such a bad thing. If you’re pulled away from something in favor of being pushed toward something else, I’ve felt that it’s often unwise to resist. I’ll say it now: I should not have stayed in the Drexel Music Industry program for as long as I did. Did I learn valuable lessons whilst in this program? Of course, I did. College, no matter how much it resembles an entertainment reality show, is still college. Some of my best memories in this program were times in which I had truly learned something. The knowledge garnered in class would reinvigorate my love and passion for the study of music and its business. My problem was that I preferred to see the study of music as an infinitely wonderful concept to be unveiled, rather than something that existed simply for the sake of monetization.

I’ve moved away from pursuing music professionally, but I refuse to believe that this makes me a failure… because I’m not. I’ve tread a different path, and I believe in my ability to make good decisions for myself. I can say that whatever comes to pass, I will find something that is at least equally fulfilling as any job I would have found in the music industry. This isn’t the case for everyone, but it is for me– and that’s okay.

I believe that we aren’t meant to do just one thing with our lives. The most interesting and multi-dimensional people have more than one passion– more than one drive– more than one motivation. I am satisfied to move about and experiment a little before shackling myself down.

If I were to offer up a piece of completely unqualified advice to my old program directors, I’d impart upon them that one’s love for music and learning can be a fragile thing, depending on the tool used to shape it. My fellow program members and I felt obligated to morph our passions into obsessions or be stuck working at Guitar Center for the rest of our lives. As such, it certainly wasn’t necessary to lay the weight of the world and the harsh reality of the industry on us (especially not during the first week). After all, that’s what internships are for.

The Wrong-er Dog

Conjure your courage and say farewell.

Sometimes I’ve felt as if cancer is a uniquely human disorder. After all, it just seems appropriate that the magnitude of pain that cancer causes should be reserved for beings that have the intellectual capacity to understand that pain and its origins. However, this is not the case. Today, I have learned firsthand that cancer impacts all creatures, regardless of whether or not they can understand the systems failing within their own bodies.

My grandmother passed away from cancer at the age of 58 years old, years before I was born. This was the one family member I had even known to have cancer, until today. I write to process the diagnosis that my family dog received this afternoon. Agnes had been experiencing nosebleeds for the last month, and we all had figured a blood clot was the cause of the issue. However, we received word from the vet that they identified a malignant lump on Aggie’s soft palate.

No matter who the subject of the diagnosis is, I imagine this information is always shocking. However, a dog has limited ways of expressing pain, which is why I think it can be all-the-more surprising when a pet develops such a disease.

All humans make shitty decisions. We all do awful things to ourselves and each other. Our world is insane and broken because homo sapiens made it that way. We have all contributed to the world’s disorder in some regard, no matter how small or insignificant the contribution. However, throughout Aggie’s 10 years on this planet, she has never done a single thing to hurt another. She used to curl up in my bed at night to protect me from whatever chaos lurked beyond my bedroom door. I am remiss to recount times in which a person did that for me.

Aside from ingesting the occasional deer dropping from the yard, this innocent canine friend has lived to comfort each and every one of my family members at times in which we needed it. I’ve had the realization that the species of a family member does not at all prevent us from loving them. Aggie (canis lupus familiaris) has proven the validity of the last word in her scientific genus time and time again.

I don’t believe that any human deserves cancer, regardless of the mistakes they’ve made and the pain they’ve caused. However, Aggie’s life has produced not a single ounce of tragedy or affliction for anyone. The only way she could ever hope to do that is by leaving this blemished world behind.

Although I know that this time may be coming soon, I am truly grateful for this little animal’s impact on my life. I can acknowledge how much easier being 11 years old was because I could pet and snuggle with an understanding and non-judgmental being when times were toughest. I love her as I would love a good friend and wish she could know just how much good she’s done for our lives.

The Wrong Dog

From where does that anger arise?

What facets of your identity motivate you to act? With whom does this align you? From whom does this separate you? The invisible lines between us thicken and obscure, so that even those who claim to not be prejudiced at all have qualities that act as a catalyst for a preference towards some humans and not others.

I suppose that’s how we began. Over millennia, we tirelessly traveled to every corner of the world, started speaking different languages, and adjusted the pigment of our complexions to coincide with the UV index of our particular region. When this was complete, we deviated from each other on the basis of race, culture, language, country, creed, and every other identifier that exists. Some settled in geographically preferable conditions and built the world around them faster. When they decided to explore, they encountered beings that were similar to themselves, but different enough to assume, “Our boats are faster, our knives are sharper, our lives are better. And so are we.”

Now, the same corners of the world that had such potential for greatness and true progress are hampered by judgment and animosity. We taunt the lame and execute the unfamiliar. A sheet of once pure and smooth glass has been granularly subdivided back into fine sand. We wear the trauma of our forefathers and inflict it upon our descendants. We etch tragedy and travesty into our actions and into the actions of our children. A single memory is long, but the memory of a nation, religion, or a race spans unimaginable eons.

As such, I find that hate is a constant and cyclical process. Like some eternally preserved energy, hatred is a force that cannot be created or destroyed, especially at a mass level. We transfer it to other humans and oppress in light of our oppressors. We fade and leave the pursuance of that hatred within ourselves to our children, the cruelest inheritance that I dare to dream of.

We are all restricted by something and bullied by someone. We are all confined in a fog of routine, tradition, history, poverty, or genocide. In light of no arrival of personal justice, we quickly dawn steel-toed boots and furiously search for the wrong dog to kick. While he cowers in the corner, whimpering from pain and exhaustion, we fail to see the reflection of ourselves in the eyes of everyone we hurt.

Exactly when will the scales of justice tip evenly in all directions? How long can we maim before we realize a semblance to our maimers creeping in when our backs are turned? As it is upon us, we lose the discernment to acknowledge the reason for finding a tormented rabbit behind the shed, buried in misdirected aggression by the wrong dog.

For the Love of Wisdom

Philosophy… what does the layman acknowledge about this concept besides its academic connotations? Most may sooner regard it as a science, rather than a vessel through which we explore age-old questions and funnel our unbounded curiosity about the universe. We forget the origin of the very word “philosophy”, which is derived from the Greek philo (love) and sophia (wisdom), literally meaning “the love of wisdom”.

As with most ancient cultures, the Greeks possessed different words for “love” due to the complexity of the emotion, as well as the situational variety during which it can be felt or expressed. First, “eros”, referring to sexual, romantic, or lustful affection; second, “agape”, meaning a sort of sacrificial love. It often bears a biblical or divine connotation within the scope of modern thought. Thirdly, their word “mania” is used to describe an obsessive kind of affection– an unhealthy and sometimes predatory variety of emotion. I think one would debate whether you could categorize this as love at all, which is why only possessing a singular word in an entire language to describe the most complex human feelings is not only confusing, but downright dangerous.

However, I digress. The word for love that correlates with the etymology of “philosophy” is “philia”, which pertains to and is often used in place of “brotherly love”. It is a word to describe the camaraderie and great connection we feel with other humans through friendship. It is a relationship that involves a great potential for evolution and the accumulation of true understanding with the provision of attention to empathetic communication.

That is the true word to describe “philosophy”– a love for learning and simultaneously building awareness of the self and the surrounding world. In contrast, it is not a lustful affection– not a gathering of information with the ulterior motive of obtaining power or notoriety. It is not a sacrificial love, though one does sacrifice time while in deep thought. However, it doesn’t seem to be much of a sacrifice on the condition that one truly does possess an affinity for wisdom. It most certainly is not a “manic” or obsessive love. If it is, then the student or thinker is simply driven by the wrong motives. One may study finance or business with an eventual plan to use what knowledge they’ve amassed to exploit economical flaws for superficial wealth. Although it shouldn’t be, this is relatively accepted as a fulfilling “purpose” to claim when deciding what occupational path to follow.

Furthermore, I posit that there entails a true danger in a manic affection towards “philosophy”. That arrives with the choice to devote oneself to the intense study of wisdom and to subsequently use none of it. Academic as its connotation may be, philosophy should never be regarded as a science. When one disposes of the truth that most or all philosophical ideas are subjective, one also throws away the joy of discovery and makes one unable to choose the parts that they like.

That is the true purpose behind “free thought”– one’s ability to take any piece of philosophically or opinion-based media and to dissect its triumphs and shortcomings. That is the “brotherly love” portion of philosophy. We have the freedom to decide the nature of our relationship with it through a drive to further our understanding of wisdom. It is our choice alone that builds our impression of the universe and whatever lies beyond it. That act of choosing, that decision to act with curious passion, is the essence of love.

Why I Write

What makes someone a great communicator? I used to think that a heightened knowledge regarding language and vocabulary would automatically allow for an increase in one’s communicability. However, in attempting to streamline my language and verbal expression, I have realized that it only accounts for a small portion of one’s full ability to communicate. One could even argue that tone and body language are even more important than the actual spoken words in terms of self-expression.

This poses a very real problem for someone on the spectrum. I’ve never been able to fully grasp the concept of non-linguistic expression, including vocal tone and body language. My facial expressions are somewhat erratic and not always indicative of how I’m currently feeling. I think that most people who see me on the street probably assume that I’m an unfriendly person, given how intense my facial expressions are sometimes. I do not have “resting b**** face”, mostly because I don’t really have much of a resting face in the first place. It is nearly impossible for me to abstain from flexing my eyebrows and pressing my lips together when I am deep in thought. In fact, my face practically moves independently of my will, which is exactly why you’ll never see me at a game of Texas Hold ‘Em.

When you strip away these aspects of communication that never came naturally to me, what remains? You are left with the words and nothing else. My whole life, I’ve struggled for some semblance of control. I have actually found this to be crucial in managing my Autism. If words are the aspect of communication that I feel I have learned (hence, I have the most control over it), then I don’t feel it’s a mystery as to why I have enjoyed writing for as long as I can remember.

As long as I write clearly and precisely, I’ve felt that there is very little room for misinterpretation. Thus, I have control over the tone in my writing due to the specificity of the language I’ve decided to employ. You will never see my face, nor will you have to pick apart my tone of voice to fully understand me.

Do I wish that I could be friendlier? Do I wish that I could attend a social gathering of more than four people for thirty minutes without having an anxiety attack? Do I wish I understood flirting? Or how to flirt at all? Yeah. I do. In fact, there are some days when I wish I could trade away every word I’ve ever written for the ability to do any of that. Life would certainly be easier.

However, I was born with specific aptitudes and deficiencies. To a certain extent, I’m stuck with what I’ve got. I believe that I’ve come a long way in figuring ways to work around my “weaknesses”, but I realize that non-verbal communication will always be difficult for me. Therefore, it stands to reason that I will write until I am no longer mentally able to do so. The only way that my ability to write will ever matter is if I use it. That’s why I write. As someone who wishes more than anything to be understood, writing seems to be the best way to do that.

I’m sure that there are some people out there who are as weird as I am – to whom I wouldn’t need to overexplain how my mind works. However, I haven’t found them yet. Until then, I write.