The art we make when we’re not trying to be understood.
by Danielle Cross
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There's a difference between making something and making something to be understood.
I didn't notice it for a long time. I thought good work was work that landed. Something people got immediately, connected with, could explain back to me in a sentence. I chased that without realising I was chasing it.
But the pieces that actually mattered, the ones people still write to me about, weren't made for anyone to understand. They were made because I needed to get something out of me and onto something else. Understanding wasn't the point. Release was.
Trying to be understood changes the work before you've even started. You start making choices for the reaction instead of the truth. Softening an edge because it might confuse someone. Adding a caption because the image alone might not land right. Explaining before anyone's even asked a question.
None of that is dishonest exactly. It's just protective. And protected work rarely moves anyone the way exposed work does.
The pieces I almost didn't release are the ones I made with no audience in mind at all. Just me, whatever I was feeling, and the closest tool I had to translate it. No performance. No explaining. Just the thing itself, whether or not it made sense to anyone standing outside of it.
That's the strange part. The less I try to be understood, the more people actually understand. Not because I explained it better. Because I stopped diluting it enough for the truth to still be in there.
I think we do this in more than art. We explain ourselves in relationships before someone's even confused. We soften opinions before anyone's pushed back. We perform clarity because we're afraid of what happens if we're simply, honestly ourselves and someone doesn't get it.
Maybe the work, in art and everywhere else, is learning to make the true thing first. Let understanding be whatever happens after. Or doesn't.
Ready?
DX
