Image courtesy my editor, Robert
My friends,
I hope this finds you in a moment of peace, because I’m about to call you to war, not the kind fought with guns, but the kind fought with guitars, pens, brushes, keyboards, and voices. The kind of war fought with truth, humor, and raw, unflinching humanity.
Look around. The world is burning, and somehow, the people who claim to carry buckets are pouring gasoline. Comedians, musicians, writers, artists, creatives of every stripe, are prostituting their platforms for views, stirring up outrage, and punching down on the powerless. We’ve allowed the joke to become the weapon of the oppressor. We’ve traded authenticity for algorithms, letting billionaires dictate the rules of a game that none of us were ever meant to win.
And for what? Clicks? Crumbs? Exposure that doesn’t pay rent?
We have forgotten our purpose. The purpose of art, the real purpose, is to connect, to take the ephemeral human experience and make it tangible, to show the world through our eyes in hopes that someone, somewhere, feels less alone. Art is the bridge to empathy. And right now, it feels like we’ve burned it to the ground for ad revenue.
I’m not here to shame you, though. I get it. I know what it’s like to feel like you have to play the game to survive. But survival isn’t enough. Not when we’re standing in the ruins of what could be a renaissance. Not when the endless commodification of creativity has turned artists into factory workers, assembly-lining mediocrity for a system that eats our souls and spits out profits for someone else.
How many painters are stocking shelves in retail hell because they can’t afford to lose their health insurance? How many singers have lost their voices screaming at their unwanted child of rape because abortion was stripped away in their state? How many brilliant indie game designers are stuck working overtime at print shops with no benefits, no raises, and no time to see their kids grow up?
We should be enraged by the art we’ll never see. The movies never made because indie filmmakers couldn’t compete with another formulaic superhero blockbuster. The poems never written because the poet was too busy working a double shift to keep the lights on. We should grieve for the songs unsung and the stories untold because we were too busy chasing the next trend or playing it safe to get along.
But rage isn’t enough. Mourning isn’t enough. We need to make. Make art that matters. Sing songs that expose injustice. Write stories that shatter illusions. Tell jokes that don’t punch down but instead punch holes in the lies of the powerful. We are the voice of the voiceless, and we have work to do.
Study the greats, not the market trends. Musicians, channel Woody Guthrie, his machine literally killed fascists. Artists, look to Frida Kahlo and Pablo Picasso, whose work screamed louder than words ever could. Writers, learn from Burroughs and Ginsberg, who tore through the veil of polite society to reveal the raw, unfiltered truth. Rappers, carry the torch of Tupac and NWA, who told the stories the world tried to ignore. Use your platforms to rage against the machine, not to feed it.
And for God’s sake, stop letting these clowns run the show. We’re watching our government turn into a farce that feels like Mel Brooks’ “Springtime for Hitler,” a gift and a farce no one expected to succeed, except there’s no curtain call, and the dynamite is real. Our job, as the jesters, is to roast the king until the illusion of power crumbles under the weight of ridicule. To expose the absurdity of oppression. To remind people that no one is invincible, no matter how much money or influence they wield.
We are the storytellers. The truth-tellers. The jesters with the privilege to speak truth to power. Use it. Use it before it’s too late.
Make art. Make noise. Make change.
Sincerely,
R. L. Lawrence