The Corner Office

Today at Queen's Park, I had a strong urge to simply run.

It was as if a voice was saying: Get out! Get out now! Just don't do this!

Stop feeling unnecessary and out-of-place? Is that it? Quit feeling peculiar, singing in my own little corner?

How is that possible for any artist, who is creating something new and uncalled-for, and who inevitably will feel out-of-step with people on their way to the office, on more conservative and traditionally rewarding paths?

That's really the most difficult thing about busking...the undeniable fact (no matter how many donations or smiles one receives) that the music wasn’t officially called for and everybody knows it. The young man walking by carrying a guitar knows it. The TTC employee sweeping the floor knows it. The work wasn’t ordered on Amazon or iTunes. It doesn’t come in a box. And as such, it’s likely to be overlooked and undervalued. By everyone! Not just the people passing by, but by the artist herself.

(I read recently that next year, as part of official Toronto Culture Year celebrations, transit riders will be treated to on-train performances by musicians and writers. I assume these will be industry-recognized writers and musicians, which many people would consider the "real" kind. Just watch: people on the trains will applaud for those and walk right by the busker in the corridor as before.)

This afternoon, I sang and played well, technically speaking. But after a particularly long period without acknowledgement, I found myself not meeting people’s eyes. By not doing so, I retreated into my corner…created a little protective barrier against the uncomfortable realization that at that particular moment I was performing mostly for myself.

I arrived with the best of intentions. I meant to give without reservation, and yet once again I learned there were strings attached. As quickly as I’d untie them (breathe…sing out of generosity…tune in to the music itself…don't think so much don't think so much don't think so much) they would fasten themselves again: the taut strings of my need for approval and affirmation, my desire to make something that has actual commercial value, the tension between my unfulfilled wish for commercial success and the voice deep within that said “sing!” Sing even though no one is listening. Sing anyway. Sing still.

Sing to still the ever-rushing train of anxious thoughts, of wants and fears, that leads me onward but returns to its starting-point, over and over again, in the course of every day.