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“The Bear” Jumped the Shark
Courtesy of The Daily Beast, Photo Illustration by Luis G Rendon/The Daily Beast/FX
Happy 4th of July, if you celebrate.
And if you’re not in favor of American independence, (on land purloined from the Indigenous population,) no stress.
Hope you enjoy a day off, irrespective of the cause.
That said, there is one thing you should not do today.
(Not if you have any sense.)
Do NOT watch Season 3 of the hit Hulu/FX show, “The Bear.”
Unfortunately, as the blog’s title suggests, the artistic series, which was pretty terrific in its first two seasons, is downright bad in its 3rd season.
These days, bad can apparently mean hot, or extremely good-looking, in Gen Z parlance.
(As opposed to the late 20th C, when it meant tough. As in the Michael Jackson song “Bad.”)
I am not using bad in either manner.
Here, bad means terrible.
Poorly made.
Annoying.
Frustrating.
And, ultimately, fruitless.
Major spoiler alert, as I’ll be discussing the story arc of Season 3.
Were I to do so extensively, I’d have trouble, as there was almost no arc of which to speak.
Basically, Disney has a Season 3 jinx with some of its Uber-talented creative teams.
It happened with “Atlanta,” “Reservation Dogs,” and now “The Bear.”
(Netflix had a similar issue with Aziz Ansari’s “Master of None.”)
Without access to what happened, I’m left to speculate.
Perhaps once the creators have built up street cred, it’s harder for them to take criticism?
Or maybe it’s the opposite, and once the projects are successful, the networks start meddling too much?
Certainly, with all three Disney shows, Season 3 was a radical departure from the energy that built success.
All three created rich, layered, hilarious, but also empathetic characters from the jump. They gave us real humans, from diverse backgrounds, who we wanted to watch.
Humor was mixed with pathos.
Depth and profundity flowed naturally. Absurdity and surrealism made sense.
Lots of movement, both the camera and in the blocking. Universes sprung up, fully formed, in Black Atlanta, Indigenous Oklahoma, and then Blue-collar Foodie Chicago.
We’ll stick with the last of those worlds, as the criticism here is mostly meant for the Christoper Storer food series.
Season 1 had only 8 episodes, filled with entertaining chaos.
Lots of yelling, cursing, passion, spilled milk, make-up hugs, and terrific set-ups.
(Like the bit about accidentally slipping valium to the attendees at a children’s birthday party.)
All the actors were charismatic, vibrant, and equal parts joyous and murderous.
The final reveal at the end of the season was revelatory.
The money in the tomato cans.
Such a powerful, intentional story.
The wonderful writing was matched by the insanely good acting.
Shout outs to all, but definitely Jeremy Allen White, Ayo Edebiri, Oliver Platt, Ebon Moss-Bachrach, Lionel Boyce, and Liza Colón-Zayas.
Season 2 took it further with 10 episodes, and gave us two of the best I’ve ever seen: the back to back “Fishes” and “Forks.”
Holy Shit was that art good.
Tension that makes you sick, but always with a payoff.
Ridiculously good cameos by Jamie Lee Curtis, Bob Odenkirk, Jon Bernthal, Sarah Paulson, and John Mulaney.
These episodes were humanistic to an impossible degree.
Magnetic bad behavior, positive expressions of love, and everything in between.
10/10.
Which is what makes the Season 3 belly-flop so disappointing.
Lest you think I’m exaggerating, I did a 3-Season binge with Jessie, as she hadn’t seen the show before.
She agreed Parts I and II were brilliant.
And we commiserated together, as Season 3 started off flat, then never improved.
Episode 1 was basically built off of flashbacks, like what they did on “Happy Days” when they needed a filler.
Seasons 1 and 2 left so much to the imagination.
Using flashbacks to fill in gaps that didn’t need filling was amateurish.
As with Aziz Ansari and Donald Glover, the show started to lean heavily on high-art cinema clichés, European style.
All through Part III, we have miserable people, emoting misery. (In obvious fashion.)
Funerals, breakups, deception, bleak stares, panic attacks... but not much movement.
So many scenes with two people sitting next to each other, talking about boring stuff, in uninspiring locales.
We had to stop it SO many times to shit-talk, or take a walk.
No balance. No uplift. No depth. And no joy.
Except for the repeated use of the Faks, two fat guys as comic relief.
(So blatant, like Shakespeare with a MUCH lower IQ.)
Irrational decisions abound, plot holes like pot holes, and very little progress.
The less said about the masturbatory IRL chef-cameo-obsessed finale, the better.
(Though I'll admit we enjoyed watching Thomas Keller try SO hard not to look at the camera as he spouted his pretentious pablum.)
It seemed like a parody of itself, but clearly wasn’t.
To top it all off, as Jessie and I stopped the finale, again and again, to wonder how they could possibly resolve any of the plot lines by the end, (as there had been so little development,) they made the cardinal sin of all time.
They ended the fucking thing with a To Be Continued.
(For real.)
Did I throw something at the screen?
No, but only because I didn’t want to break my computer.
An irresponsible solution to a season with so little joy.
We continually talked about the Hollywood Writer’s strike of 2023, and how it seemed the production team had given in to nihilism.
How they should have done more therapy, then used their personal growth to fuel the writing.
(Rather than just trauma-dump.)
It was impossible to stay in the narrative, as the seams were everywhere.
As I said at the beginning, I hope you have a nice day today.
I do.
But you won’t if you try to watch the latest version of “The Bear.”
It’s about as much fun as having a junkyard dog bite off your private parts.
No thanks. -
Secret Recipe: Steak Fajitas
Some days, I just have to write.
Other days, I want no part of it.
Then there are days like today, when I’m not feeling that white-hot compulsion, but do have a post in mind.
I’ve already walked the dogs, made some photographs on my new project, had a smoothie, and am about ready to go do a heavy, lower-body lift at the gym.
(Focusing on my legs has led to some major progress in my Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.)
My point: I wouldn’t normally bother with a post on a day like this.
And yet, Friday’s article was viewed on every Continent within 24 hours.
You, the Sunshine and Olly audience, hail from so many countries it makes my head spin.
And that is undoubtedly cool.
So I figured I’d share a recipe today.
One I’ve been working on.
Given how expensive restaurants are these days, I’m giving you the hook-up on how to have a proper carnivorous celebration meal...
...on a very decent budget.
Today’s recipe: Steak Fajitas.
I serve them in the skillet, straight from the stove to the table. I know many people don’t eat meat, much less beef.
I respect that, and try to limit my animal consumption as much as possible.
But I don’t eschew beef, and since I started lifting seriously, I do need to eat it about 2x a week.
(Once for sure or my muscles start crying.)
On Saturday, I got a 1 lb NY Strip Sirloin at Albertsons for $14.99, which was enough meat for me, Jessie, and then Theo cleaned up the prodigious leftovers when he came home from camp.
(There are even a few strips left in the fridge.)
That works out to $5/person, for the meat portion, and just think about what that would cost in a restaurant.
Add in 1 large red bell pepper, 1 onion, a few scallions if you have them, and some chiles, and you’re done.
(Plus limes, tortillas, and a tad of shredded cheese.)
To make it great, though, the meat should marinate for a day in my special brew, and I’d recommend a good skillet if you have one.
Let’s get to it.
Season both sides of your steak with salt, pepper, and New Mexico Red Chile powder. (If you can find it.)
Pat in the dry rub, get it on the sides too, and then pour over the wet ingredients to make the marinade.
Some Worcestershire sauce, balsamic vinegar, fresh squeezed lime juice, and a tad of orange juice.
Flip and baste the meat as much as you’d like, over 24 hours. (It can be as little as 30 minutes, if need be.)
Be sure to leave the meat out for an hour, though, so it comes up to temperature before cooking.
From there, you heat up your skillet, and cook down the onion in olive oil until it’s soft, seasoning it with salt and pepper. Add the scallions if you have them, then remove to a separate bowl.
Add a touch more oil, then the sliced red bell pepper, and move the slices around the skillet with salt and pepper.
When the color is slightly less intense, remove the peppers to the onion bowl.
Give the skillet a minute to heat up well again, then cook the meat on front and then back, without moving it, until each side has some nice crunch and color.
Using tongs, then cook on the sides, top and bottom, taking care to render as much of the side-cap fat as you can, to impart more flavor.
When each side is done on the outside, remove the steak, and let it rest for about 3 minutes.
The meat will be undercooked, so carefully slice it, then add the steak, peppers and onions back to the skillet.
(On a lower heat.)
Stir the fajitas, squeeze some more lime, and hit the mixture with more black pepper too.
I included New Mexico roasted green chiles, but you could use jalapeños, serranos, or any chile.
The chile heat, along with the lime-juice acid, cuts through the richness of the meat.
Heat up your flour tortillas, chuck on a bit of shredded cheese, and you’ll be in heaven.
Of course, if you have guacamole or salsa around, you can add that too.
(The check-out clerk mistakenly gave me two avocados, so our guac was free.)
For the cost of a $15 steak, a $1.50 red bell pepper, and a $1 onion, you’re feeding a family of three.
Well.
In any decent Mexican restaurant, that’s $20/plate.
Probably more.
So next time you’re craving fajitas, give it a try.
The sizzle sounds so good!
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Photo Feature Friday: Laidric Stevenson
by Jonathan Blaustein
Hi Everybody.
How’s it going?
I know my production here has lagged, but thankfully it’s not for any nefarious reason. (Though I have had a major formatting issue with WordPress, which has made posting much less fun.)
It’s summer, which slows everything down, and I’m happy to report I’m actually making photographs now, almost every day.
The urge to force it, which I wrote about a month ago, has proven fruitful, and I’m getting my creativity needs met on the regular, making visual art again.
That said, I didn’t build up the blog all spring just to abandon it to lazy days.
No sir.
During that push, I also rejuvenated the photography portion of Sunshine and Olly by reviving my Friday photo column.
As today’s title suggests, that’s where we’re going. It’s for a similar reason as the last run of photo columns, in that I saw something organically, and wanted to share it.
In this case, an artist I know from Dallas, whom I profiled twice in my column at A Photo Editor, has been showing the coolest night photos on IG the past few months.
Titled sometimes i can’t sleep.
I was just telling someone yesterday that my IG feed is nearly ceaseless in its promotion of martial arts and fitness videos.
So. Many. Videos.
I barely see photographs, (even though I follow a million photographers,) but somehow, Laidric Stevenson’s night pictures, in Texas, made it through the algorithm’s very tight set of standards. (Yes, I was originally going to write sphincter, but it seemed too gross.)
These pictures are not new.
Doesn’t matter.
As artists, knowing when to let things sit, sometimes for years, is a valuable skill.
Adding time to the way we receive photographs, (allowing for culture to age,) is a battle tested way of juicing the flavor.
Like photo MSG.
According to his statement, (which is super-well-written, IMO,) back in the last decade, the only time of day Laidric could definitely get to make photographs, (between a young child and two jobs,) was to go out at night.
And lest you think these pictures are easy, they’re all made on film.
With big cameras.
This is the opposite of blazing away and letting the digital sensor do the work.
I’m going to give you a nice quote from Laidric, to enhance your understanding of his art, and then we’ll land the plane with a series of his pictures.
Beyond that, I’ll be back next week.
Laidric wrote:
“While counting down the minutes plus exposure, I can’t help but notice things like the smell of the nighttime air.
It smells cleaner somehow without all the traffic around, even though I’m still in the city. There’s also the way the night turns down the volume of life.
I know it may not be like this elsewhere in the city, so I try to find these isolated pockets to set up my camera in peace.
As photographers, sometimes we have to answer to those who don’t understand what we’re doing and why.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Why are you taking pictures?’
‘What are you taking pictures of?’
‘Why are you taking pictures of that?’
Sometimes, we might not even know why. The photographs are us searching for those answers.
All i know is some nights, i can’t sleep.”
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The Falcon and the Hawk
Short post today.
(I caught a cold Friday night, and it’s laid me low.)
Weird to think such “normal” viruses are back.
The kind that won’t kill you, require taking obnoxious tests, or make you quarantine for days.
The kind that hits when you’re worn out, and your immune system is compromised.
It’s frustrating, but reminiscent of the before-times.
So that’s something.
Short post today, but not one lacking mission.
With my limited energy, I still had to take the dogs for a walk this morning, as that’s part of the deal.
Even on a huge farm, our pack still insists on human leaders to make the rounds, check the territorial borders, catch some exercise, and of course relieve their bowels.
Olly, along the acequia 
This morning, just as I was leaving our favorite stretching spot, (a fence gate that’s quite convenient,) I heard a red-tailed hawk screech above us.
Live in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains long enough, and you’ll recognize the call immediately.
So I looked up and saw the strangest thing.
A tiny falcon was dive-bombing the massive hawk.
Flitting around the bigger bird, causing a nuisance.
It was wild.
Much as I normally just try to enjoy those moments, I grabbed the iPhone, set it to zoom, and tried to capture a fraction of a second.
With a little help from enlarging the file, I can at least show you the fuzzy outlines of the encounter.
Right after I took this, the hawk caught an air current and sailed off.
The freaking falcon won!
The other bird was 10x the size, but took the hint and left town. (So to speak.)
I mention this because in a might makes right era, (to which we’ve tenuously returned,) we always assume the bigger, stronger entity will win.
And normally, that’s true.
But not always.
Training, technique, strategy, tactics, heart, motivation, expertise, experience… these things matter too.
In difficult times, it’s important to remember the unexpected happens constantly.
And sometimes, underdogs win.
So if you’re down, don’t give up.
Catch you next time.
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Making Moves, Part Two
This is a weird one to write.
(It’s funny how honesty works.)
Lately, the posts that have been really raw, just coming from a place deep within my soul…
…they’ve drawn the best response.
When I use Sunshine and Olly as art, by saying the things that are desperate to get out of my body, it’s created conversation.
(Best case scenario, really.)
And those posts are NOT hard to write.
The energy leaps out of me, through my fingers on the keyboard. There’s a compulsion to the process, those days.
A physical need.
This one, though, I’ve planned to write.
Planned to share.
But it’s much trickier.
Because it involves my hopes and dreams, not just my inner turmoil.
The truth is, this is not news to people who know me IRL.
(Or some with whom I’ve been in direct digital contact.)
But it is not something I’ve shared publicly, even though I’ve been cooking it up for a few months.
After 19 years here in Taos, my family and I are planning to move.
To leave the only home my kids have ever known.
We’re headed West.
To Southern California.
The kids at the beach, Encinitas, 2018
I don’t know why typing that out is so hard.
Maybe it makes it feel more real?
Raises the stakes?
Probably not.
Probably, it’s just the inner fear that comes out when one makes such big moves.
But given what I’ve shared here over the past 16 months, it really shouldn’t come as a surprise.
I’ve written about career changes, and hinted at the massive gentrification taking place in Taos.
(All over the West, in many cases.)
Back when I used to travel all the time, and Taos was a smaller place, I could imagine living here forever.
All along, though, it felt isolated.
Living in the quiet, with nature an intimate part of your daily life, is amazing.
This morning’s dog walk. I’ll miss this part of Taos life, for sure. 
It’s given me and my family a platform to become our best selves.
But living far from everywhere, forever, is a bit extreme.
Plus, I grew up at the beach, and have lived 1000 miles from one since 2005.
Fuck that shit.
Give me some ocean.
ASAP!
So that’s what today’s short post is about.
Making moves is often about getting your mind right.
Understanding the larger playing field, and your position on it.
Sometimes, even though it’s super-scary, we have to make decisions on faith.
On belief.
Optimism can be hard to come by, in 2024.
So if you can find any, and you see some light up ahead, maybe head that way and see what’s there?
Catch you next time.
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Twenty Years of Marriage
I’ve written a lot about my career lately.
How it needs a boost.
Some fresh energy.
It’s definitely a mid-life thing, because a bunch of people have reached out to say I’m not alone.
But sometimes, when we focus on one area of our lives too much, it can do a disservice to the things that are going well.
Yesterday, I wrote about all the love I have in my family, between my wife, kids and the dogs.
Jessie and the dogs, this morning I’m also in the best physical shape of my life; regularly sparring with higher-ranked BJJ guys half my age.
Today, though, I want to briefly discuss the best thing in my life.
The thing that makes everything else possible.
My 20 year marriage to Jessie Kaufman, the most amazing person I know.
That’s right.
Today’s our anniversary, as we were married on Memorial Day Weekend, 2004.
We’re planning to celebrate a bit with the kids this weekend, as today’s a work-day, but hopefully we’ll have some fun later too.
I bought Jessie some beautiful flowers, and we had a nice walk in the sun already.
Jessie and me, this morning, celebrating our 20th Anniversary This post, though, matters.
People from 44 countries in every part of Earth have read articles on this blog in May.
I’m speechless.
And since I write about my life, I want to share with all of you that Jessie is kind, considerate, caring, super-smart, empathetic, funny, warm, helpful, beautiful, charming, thoughtful, stylish, talented, hard-working, strong, and just an all-around terrific wife and mother.
If Sunshine and Olly is to be an honest place, then I can’t just bitch and critique.
Sometimes, we need to honor someone, and then step out of the way.
Jessie, I love you!
Happy 20th Anniversary!
Thanks for being the best life-partner a guy could ask for.
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Love is a Behavior
Children crave affection, attention and guidance.
It’s a form of food, otherwise known as love.
That’s right: love is not an emotion, primarily.
It’s a behavior.
We show love, we give love, we act love.
We care, we support, we ask questions, we hug, we listen, we help.
When we do wrong, we fix it.
We apologize.
We grow.
We accept responsibility for our behavior, and endeavor to do better next time.
By loving, we become our best selves.
(That’s the idea, anyway.)
Keeping it short today, because I wanted to write, but don’t have a lot of time.
My son Theo, who’s 16.5, has an appointment this morning for his driving test.
Theo, getting locked in for his driver’s license test He’s had a learners-permit license since Winter, and has been practicing his butt off.
Luckily, he’s conscientious, mature, and wicked smart, so he’s been driving well for months.
So well, I let him drive our fancy car through the Rocky Mountains on Saturday.
Twice!
Meaning, we had to cross them to get to the Eastern side, and then to come back. Two super-difficult mountain pass drives.
It’s both fun and challenging, and normally, I would have done some of the driving myself.
But I knew how much it would mean to him.
Having the adventure.
Proving himself.
I gave up a little pleasure of my own, so he could have an experience we’d remember forever.
Seeing him happy made me happy anyway.
Like this morning.
Knowing I’ll be there for him, offering support on the drive in, while he’s nervous.
Knowing I’ll be there to give him a huge smile, and a big hug, when he emerges successful.
When he has that piece of paper that children (in the “developed” world) look forward to their entire lives.
I don’t just say “I love you,” and then act however I want, without consequences.
I prioritize my life to be there for him, and his sister.
To always hold myself to the highest standards.
And when I fail, I apologize.
Work harder to get it right next time.
Because love, in its true form, is an act of service to the people (or animals) we care most about.
It involves massive amounts of life juice, (chi,) to be there for someone. To listen to their hurts, offer empathy, and then guidance, when the mind and heart are ready to receive.
I “love” my wife and children so much, it gives my life meaning to treat them with this kind of love.
Something to think about…
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Empathy Is A Superpower
Empathy is a superpower.
Unfortunately, most people possess it through struggle and suffering.
Personally, I was taught the concept, and then had its value ground into me over the past 27 years.
My wife Jessie, (who is amazing,) introduced me to empathy early in our relationship, because I was definitely self-absorbed as a younger person.
(Many are.)
When men and women work together, and pull in the same direction, incredible things can happen.
That should not be such a radical statement, yet in 2024, it is, as both genders have largely retreated to opposite corners of a combat sports ring.
Usyk beating the much larger Fury the other night. Image by Nick Potts, courtesy of AP and NBC News Incels and cat moms.
(Or so the media would have us believe.)
The idea that each gender can learn from the other, (in this binary exercise, as these days there are multiple genders,) is controversial, because the current political winds make it easy to hate on men for everything that we are.
Sure, counter-reactions are out there too, in the guise of your Andrew Tates, and Harrison Butkers, but those guys are just MAGA cartoons.
They have as much a chance of influencing actual women as does El Chewbacca, speaking in some strange Spanish-Wookie dialect.
We all know that 2024 feels like tribes screaming at each other, across some muddy battlefield, each dug into a trench that smells like feet.
It’s so clear, people actually brag about their impermeability to new information.
(A classy relative, denigrating me on the phone this week, actually said I should save my breath, as advocating for myself was the equivalent of talking to a wall. Direct quote.)
But what was my point today?
I began with empathy, because I’ve received so much of it since I published the last few super-honest blogs.
Lots of good people reached out, via phone, email, FB, IG, and text message, to share that they were going through similar things.
They told me they knew how I felt.
They wished me well.
And each time, for at least a few moments, I felt better.
Driving home Friday night. My buddy Sean texted me a photo of his day, so I texted one back. Knowing I was not alone.
Knowing the larger forces that have subjugated the creative classes are real.
Just yesterday, during a long call with an artist friend, (which was spurred on by the blog,) he actually listed all the things that had to go wrong, simultaneously, to put this many people out of work.
I was aware, but hearing it recited made the struggle seem more comprehensible.
We empathized with each other.
Two masculine guys, supporting each other in a traditionally feminine way.
Both of us Dads.
Both of us husbands.
Both of us artists.
Both of us believing we deserved better than we were getting, and trying to help the other figure out what it would take to break out of the industry-wide malaise.
All because of Sunshine and Olly.
I’m not exaggerating.
The support has been great.
But it’s also instructive to see who doesn’t reach out.
Who doesn’t want to help.
Which people I thought were my friends, but really, they dumped me as soon as I lost my powerful position in the photo world.
Are there people who have chosen not to empathize?
Not to help?
Sure, and they must know I keep receipts.
But that’s negative thinking, and I don’t want to be a hater.
One friend wrote me from Europe yesterday, (during travels,) to specifically will me out of my soul sadness. To directly try to inspire me to make visual art again.
Not subtle.
And would you believe it worked?
I picked up the camera, because I had a playful idea, and several people had recommended I rediscover play lately.
Sure enough, the camera battery was dead.
So was the backup.
Still, I persevered, and charged the damn battery.
Waited 10 minutes, and made my first art photographs of 2024.
I actually trimmed the beard and hair afterwards. So I’m not this forlorn anymore. Partly, it was because one artist, (who recommended play,) also reminded me we need to be sharp, for when the real project introduces itself.
Don’t be afraid to make bad stuff, or at least not-great stuff, to make sure the art muscles are strong when they’re needed.
Such great advice.
(Thanks, Jason!)
So let me try to land the plane here.
If you are able to help the people you care about, the people you admire, the people who’ve helped you…
… that positive energy continues to flow through the Universe.
Do the good deed, if you can.
Open your heart to other kind people.
Let’s see how much of a difference we can make?
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Thank You Very Much
I am rarely passive aggressive.
Just not my thing.
I grew up around that energy, and despise it, so we definitely don’t tolerate it in our home.
(Not normally a problem. My wife, kids and dogs are amazing.)
Jessie with Olly, Sunshine and Billy on a walk last month Occasionally, though, I’ll fall into the behavior.
One time, I did a solid favor for a colleague.
Went out of my way to set up an intro, (suavely,) that got said colleague invited to a festival in a different, phenomenal city.
I even said beforehand, “Hey, would you like me to hook you up, b/c I’m sure we can get you invited there?”
Honestly, I used to do that connecting shit all the time, but in this case, a few months later, I read the person’s name on that festival list, yet I never got a thank you.
It rubbed me wrong.
A few days a later, I made a generic posting on FB about how important it is to thank people, and express gratitude, when they’ve done you a solid.
It appeared general, but the message conveyed, because that colleague reached out, thanked me, and apologized for not having done so sooner.
Did I feel great about what I’d done?
No. Not really.
Like I said, I try my best not to be passive aggressive.
I am, though, a big believer in gratitude, and manners.
My kids are polite as hell, all please and thank you, because we live with so much love and respect.
(Positive energy can create virtuous cycles, once it’s properly released into the world.)
So… with all that build up…
Thank you very much!
Seriously.
Thank you!
The amount of support I have received since Tuesday, when I wrote that honest piece about what it feels like to be a middle-aged artist these days, it’s been massive.
And so many people have reached out to say they’re going through similar things.
It’s not just me.
(Again, part of why I wrote it was I’d been getting private confessions over the last 9 months.)
Lately, FB has also allowed some community dialogue to develop, which is something I’ve actively tried to cultivate here at Sunshine and Olly.
Beyond that, the blog has been read on every continent in the last few days. (Except Antarctica.)
People are digging into the archive, our readership numbers have skyrocketed, and it’s happening everywhere.
So like I said, thank you very much!
I appreciate each and every person who reads this blog, and all the people who’ve contacted me.
(Talk about a change in perspective over a few days.)
So let’s end it here, shall we?
I hope all is well, wherever you are, as Sunshine and Olly is a proper global publication.
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Stress Kills Creativity
I’ve never been a fan of nihilism.
(Other than when it was parodied in The Big Lebowski.)
Image courtesy of Redtree Times As a life-long positive energy guy, believing in nothing, no meaning, no value, just a cold void…
…Not my thing.
But 2024, (really the last four years,) has started to sap me of my hope.
The say stress kills, and often creativity is the first thing to go.
Lately, beyond cooking and writing this blog, my creative production has been non-existent.
I haven’t made anything remotely artistic since last summer, when I shot the Mike Bone concert here in Taos.
Which is concerning.
Lil Mike and Funnybone in Kit Carson Park, Taos, 2023
I remember the last time I felt this way.
Pickled in stress.
I was the interim Chair of the Fine Arts Department at UNM-Taos, back in 2015-16.
Honestly, I fell backwards into the job, because there was no one else on campus who was qualified, so I gave it a go.
As interim, I was a success, as I recruited, hired, and promoted the woman who went on to take my job.
(Once I realized I didn’t want it.)
Part of why I quit was that I felt that level of constant misery was sapping my will to be an artist.
Not long after I left the job, I had the idea for “Party City is the Devil,” which was my last major conceptual photo series.
“Red Mask, blue gumballs, and blue plastic tablecloth” It became my first solo exhibition at the Harwood Museum of Art, here in Taos in the fall of 2019, and was featured twice on the TV News.
School groups came by.
The show had buzz.
Then the pandemic came along, and disrupted all my momentum.
These days, as a 50 year old, straight white Jewish man, we all know opportunities are few and far between.
But it’s not something that’s openly discussed.
Rather, it’s constantly implied that it’s our turn to be on the outside, looking in, as people like me had it good for so long.
Except that’s not really true.
It’s always been hard to be an artist.
Only now, it’s gone from being hard to being nearly impossible.
And the life stress that’s come with losing my income, and my career, has begun to take a toll on my soul.
Not gonna lie, life has been extremely hard lately.
The worst part has been knowing how much good I did for my photography community in all the years I had a big audience and platform.
The NY Giants (mostly disgraced) former General Manager, Dave Gettleman, recently said that when you leave the field, it feels like you died.
No one calls, or sends emails.
The world pressures you, quietly, into thinking you don’t matter anymore.
The Giants great QB, Phil Simms, was recently let go by the CBS NFL broadcast team, at 68, because he was too old.
He was open in admitting he didn’t want to go, and wouldn’t likely get another job in TV.
That’s what it’s felt like for me lately.
It doesn’t matter anymore what my talent level is, or my work ethic.
It doesn’t matter how many people I helped or supported along the way.
Instead, there has been this silent, but unmissable message: it’s not my time anymore.
The millennials who run things like to work with their own.
I get it.
But without being an artist, I’ve having some serious questions about my identity.
(Mid-life crisis much?)
Why am I writing this?
Because day by day, I find out this is happening to a lot of creative people.
The lack of resources, and opportunities.
The sad feeling that it doesn’t matter anymore.
That I have to just accept it, and move on with my life.
Become a Realtor.
Get a regular job.
Give up.
But I don’t want to give up.
I want help, support, and kindness.
I want to receive what I have offered others for so many years.
Life, however, is not fair.
So that’s where I’ll end it today.
I’m no fan of despair, and my family and I are considering making some radical changes, to find more happiness.
Because I know we deserve it.
That’s the trickiest part of contemporary mental health culture.
We’re all talking about how we deserve to be treated, or what we want to manifest, but so many people die cold and alone these days.
Trump, and the pandemic, broke something fundamental.
And if we don’t get it back, things will only get worse.
So while this is not a cry for help, it is my attempt to give voice to the things people have begun to tell me in private.
Musical chairs is the most stressful children’s game out there, and that’s what the creative industries have become.
Each looking out for him/her/themselves, because there is no longer enough to go around.
People know if they lose their job, they’ll have to leave a declining industry.
Nasty business.
Thankfully, I haven’t embraced nihilism just yet.
But if things don’t get any easier, if I don’t catch a break, the world will soon have one more bored, disinterested, checked out, middle-aged white guy.
C’est la vie.
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Sunshine and Olly 