Art Through The Cracks in the Concrete

Dusty Deevers’ Oklahoma bill seeking 10 years in prison for possession of a Hustler rag, an overly-broad and wildly vague Texas law (passed) ostensibly banning a whole shit-load of manga (the target was loli but the method was shotgun), a drafted bill seeking to make “Trump Derangement Syndrome” into a mental illness as a way to confiscate guns from political dissidents and allow MAGAs to potentially discredit or forcibly commit their family members for criticism of our current mad king: all in the first few months of his reign. The systematic and unlawful dismantling of our government systems, failsafes, and economy has left the country reeling—the flurry of activity part of their tactic to overwhelm and break America and the world as we know it. And still, we’re left here as the little people just along for the ride, trying to make art and duck under the eyes of those who might scoop us up one day for the Soylent.

How does one make art and writing when one is so overwhelmed by the existential dread that sets in at the thought of an uncertain future? How does one allow for whimsy when one has discovered the pure and unbridled hatred that a whole lot of people in power have for innocent folks who’ve done nothing to earn it? How do we even sleep when we know that there are those out there who would gleefully shovel us into an incinerator and bring to life the fictitious “Day of the Rope” depicted in the White Nationalist “Bible” of The Turner Diaries? These people are in our government, they are running our surveillance devices, they are on the hunt. It’s more important than ever to weigh our options between being loud and being safe, but boots on the ground are always appreciated, and everyone has a role to play in mutual aide. Even if it’s art. Sometimes especially if it’s art.

Sometimes art is more about resistance than anything else. Signs of life. Signs of comradeship. A gentle reminder that flowers really can grow from between the cracks in cement. For all of us who have been betrayed and actively hunted, there are those who can still find a canvas to whisper or scream in fury. Recently, New Mexico immigrant advocates have sounded the alarm over the disappearance of nearly 50 residents who were abducted by ICE—our American Gestapo—whose identities and whereabouts have not been confirmed by officials. The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) has decried these actions as “human rights violations” with the NM head of the chapter going on to explain that when they are unreachable, this “places [them] outside the protection of the law.” It is in these absences that we find despair in empathy and fear in the unknown. Will we ever find them? Or will they be lost to the next atrocity and forgotten until their spirits haunt the wreckage of American shame? These are the flowers smothered by the slabs—and we, so far, are those yet surviving under mere gravel, sprouting for the sake of those lost.

For artists and writers and those who create, it is often considered a biological imperative: something that cannot be controlled, much like the daisy cannot help but make the attempt to bloom even through adversity. Maybe the art will look different. Maybe it won’t be as happy. Maybe it won’t be as open and whimsical as it used to be. Maybe it’s an outlet for grief rather than a celebration of joy in life. After all, it surely seems as though all certainty is crumbling—how can we be certain in our creation? From short stories, dark and mood-driven, to the gentle stencil work of a novice graffiti artist, art will live despite the wars against it (A.I., and the soulless forms of brutal “futurism” under Musk and his infamous “Cybertruck”) though it will not be without casualty.

We could possibly lose our grandmothers, our grandfathers, our history, and our children. Without much-needed medical support, we could lose the most vulnerable of all of us. Without vaccinations, we will lose infants, toddlers, and even adults to easily-preventable disease. In a worst-case fantasy scenario, one dropped missing Soviet vial of smallpox and the world as we know it descends into a plague of biblical proportions as anti-intellectualism runs rampant and murders the innocent in great swathes of painful blisters. Like an image straight out of Revelations, we take our inspiration. We take tragedy and redesign it. We take fear and transform it. As Victor Frankl and Susan Cain have discussed in their works, it is from the desperation of these thoughts that we find a poignant beauty in the passage of time and the small wonders of the world. Those flowers in the concrete. Resilience in human kind…at least…in those who live.

It is difficult to focus when it feels as though you’re about to be next. When it feels as though you will be forced to witness a great atrocity and be able to do nothing to stop it. When access to friends, communities, and support is one bad law away from the destruction of the infrastructure that allowed for connection. When you’re two steps from a life-ending event which previously could have been a blip in the rear-view. It is hard to make art when you’re struggling upward against the weight of concrete, searching desperately for the crack that will let you breathe. But art is an imperative. One breath, one sliver of sunlight, one chance and we can bloom and provide solace to the bees that there is still hope—if only between the cracks.