Being an Artist

I used to think that street performers were just too good. Something circus-like. A big enough attraction that they deserved to be public, like a monument. I still think that today. When I arrive at the subway station to play, and I sit on the floor and start setting up my equipment, I feel a certain perplexity. No, it's not fear, it's perplexity. Like someone who doesn't understand what's happening.

Singing and playing well means nothing out there on the street. You have to impress. It's more than just doing it right. In fact, there are two types of people who stop and give money: The first, and most common, is the person who's giving money not for skill, but for effort. Sometimes I'm still setting up the equipment and someone comes up to me with a coin. The second, rarer type, is the person who "pays" because they're impressed. Sometimes the coin will be accompanied by praise; sometimes the person walks by, stops, turns around, and gives a coin (or bills).

Sometimes people film, applaud, and chat. Especially when they're young, teenagers; they'll only make money if they're impressed. And how can you impress? Especially in a scene as competitive as Montreal's. The subways are packed with musicians, as are all the bars and theaters in the city. That's why I'm perplexed to be there "selling" my music. My musical ability. It's as if I'm asking myself: am I good enough for this?

I've never performed live. I've never received recognition as a musician, either online or offline, among my family, friends, and acquaintances. I've always lived in complete anonymity and utter insecurity about my musical ability. When I post a video of myself singing and playing on social media, I usually get no response. At most, one or two likes. I feel like trash. An amateur. And from this, from this situation, from this desolation, I took to the streets. Asking not only to be acclaimed but also to be paid. To be paid for my music. That's why I'm so perplexed.

During these two weeks of playing daily, a fluctuation of feelings hits me. Sometimes I feel like I'm good. Really good. Sometimes I feel like I'm earning money out of pity—from that first group who just want a vote of confidence. The best part is undoubtedly the interaction. I need money—really—a lot. I'm not there for adventure. But better than returning with a bag full of cash is hearing: "I don't have any coins, sorry, but you're amazing." Or someone asking for my card. Or giving me a thumbs-up. Or stopping to film or watch. It's in these moments that I feel like an artist. And a professional. Without an audience, the artist doesn't feel validated. Without money, the professional doesn't feel validated.

I get home and practice that part I thought wasn't so good. I try to replace that song I think is weak. I try to learn the harmonica. I improvise instrumentals. If I could, I'd do somersaults. I put on a show. I develop as an artist. Day by day. As I always have, but now the difference is: I am. Am I? I am. I transform my reality. And I live it.