Would art exist without an audience?

This question emerged already two times in my mind during the last 24 hours. First through a video by Dante Sisofo. And now, while sipping my morning coffee, between the lines of Italo Calvino's "Palomar".

Palomar, swimming at sunset, asks himself if the sun reflection on the sea would exist even if there was no one witnessing it. This reflection that his eyes recorded as a sword in the sea. Would it still be there without him being there?

Now, think of yourself as Palomar, and these words and photos as the sun reflection. Would they still exist even without any of you here? Probably yes, maybe in a different way. The scenes in my photos would definitely exist. The photos, the artifact that depicts the scene, probably. My experience, my thoughts and reflections for sure. These missives? Who knows.

The relationship between the artist, the art and the audience is a complex dynamic. I often hear people recommending creating art just to enjoy the process, because you love it, because it’s an inner need.

I totally agree with that and, at the same time, it makes me question my art. I'm grateful for all the experiences I’ve had through photography. I admire people, like Vivian Maier, that just go out and make photos without even developing the films. But. There’s often a but. What about myself? Would I still do it without any audience out there? Probably. Would my creative outcome have the same shape or format without an audience? I'm not sure. Maybe everything would just lie in my hard drive or on my notepad.

I'm late. Again. I lost myself between the coffee and the streets. All the places I planned to visit are winding down.

Enjoy the journey, not just the destination. I keep repeating to myself, somewhere between justification and self-imposed hypnosis before walking through the door.

Soft lights. Dark wood. Piano notes invading my ears. A different city, but a familiar feeling. Maybe I’ll find the answers to my big questions here.

Jazz kissa are slowly growing on me. Everything here puts me at ease. I can just sit, have a drink, and listen to music for hours. Young people, white-collar workers, regulars and so on. Everyone seems comfortable. I look to my right. The guy beside me is in his own bubble. The body is here, lulled by the piano notes. Who knows where the mind is wandering.

I’m entering a similar space. My feet move in rhythm with the trumpet. The smoke of a cigarette ready to crash on the ashtray teleports me into another era.

A voice pulls me out of my thoughts: where are you from? It’s Akira, from the other side of the counter. He’s run this place since 1989. In a second a new conversation starts and I bounce out of my cocoon.

I’m not getting an answer to my big questions, but for sure I’m going home with one more story.

Till the next missive,

— M

PS. Before leaving the city I met Alexander Muñoz. It’s thanks to his work that I got to know about Fukuoka. Go and check his great work.