As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I do not have strong Feelings, as many do, about Amanda Palmer, singer and performance artist perhaps best known for her punk-cabaret duo the Dresden Dolls. She gave a very well-received TED talk in 2013 and is now the best-selling author of The Art of Asking*.
[You may have heard of her with respect to her Kickstarter campaign that garnered more than a million dollars to produce an album, as well as the ensuing controversy regarding volunteer musicians (overblown, from where I sit). Or you might know of her tangentially since she’s married to Neil Gaiman, author extraordinaire of various works of speculative fiction (here’s a review). A friend in high school (brilliant, creative, and rather sad) was a big fan of Dresden Dolls, so I’ve kept an ear out for Ms. Palmer over the years, and she pops up pretty frequently in my various newsfeeds since she was based in Boston for many years.]
I read this book out of sheer curiosity; I find Ms. Palmer fascinating. Though her lyrics, several of which are included in The Art of Asking, reveal an introvert’s self-examination and anxieties, she’s outspokenly open about much of her personal life (from sharing finances with her spouse to not shaving her legs) and her artistic process. You might get a sense of this openness from the book’s cover. She’s worked as a street performer and recently appeared in only body paint to benefit the New York Public Library. She and Mr.Gaiman have an open marriage. In essence, she does things I would be utterly terrified to do or utterly uninterested in doing.
And she makes her living by making art, which most writers will tell you is extremely difficult in this day and age. The Art of Asking is a memoir that also explains how and why she is able to do this.
The book shifts back and forth in time, but the touchstone is Ms. Palmer’s street performance as “The Eight-foot Bride” in Harvard Square. Wearing a wedding dress and painting her face white, she stood silently on milk crates in the bustling square; when someone dropped money in the jar she set out, she theatrically handed the person a flower from her bouquet. The performance went on until she ran out of flowers (or until it rained). This is her theory of the arts economy in miniature: artists should put their work out into the world, and ask for compensation from those who connect with it, being prepared for the fact that most people will walk by without leaving any of their change behind. Build on those connections, ask for help when you need it (without shame, without expectation), and eventually everything will work out. And more than work out: the community you build will function even in your absence; people will find each other and help each other based on their shared connection.
The fan connection part of this model—-making art for a specific audience, to find that audience rather than making something and hoping it will become a hit—-reminds me of writer Diana Gabaldon, who maintains a personal connection with fans better than almost any other writer I know of (Neil Gaiman also comes to mind, perhaps unsurprisingly). Ms. Gabaldon writes her own posts on facebook, comments on fan art, keeps readers up to date with excerpts from her work in progress, even visits book blogs that review her books (like this one, actually). Result: devoted fans who are happy to pay for the art that she makes, and who joyfully connect with other fans over matters Outlander-related (knitting!) and not.
Accustomed to doom and gloom about the state of the arts and humanities, I found Ms. Palmer’s optimism and practical suggestions refreshing; I’d definitely recommend the book to enterprising new artists.
But wait, you’re thinking. What about the memoir part of the memoir?
Well, it’s terribly interesting, as you might expect from an indie rock star. Putting on an act to get out of a terrible record contract, pop-up ukulele shows with six people, getting trapped in Iceland but still finding fans, and masters-level couchsurfing all make appearances. Here’s a passage about the latter I liked:
Couchsurfng is about more than saving on hotel costs. It’s a gift exchange between the surfer and the host that offers an intimate gaze into somebody’s home, and the feeling of being held and comforted in their personal space. It’s also a reminder that we’re floating along due to a strong bond of trust, just like when I surf the crowd at a show, safely suspended on a sea of ever-changing hands. (157)
The book is also three love stories. One is about Amanda Palmer’s love for her community of fans and fellow artists; one is the tale of how she fell in love with Neil Gaiman (apparently, I learned at their event at the Boston Book Festival, when they couldn’t agree on his wording in recounted arguments, she let him write his own dialogue), and one is the story of her lifelong love for Anthony, her neighbor, friend, mentor, advisor, and relationship coach. They met when she was a girl, and he died after the book was published, but Ms. Palmer’s writing about his illness is a moving testament of the great love between kindred spirits of the platonic variety.
I have quibbles, of course. One involves her anecdote about Thoreau, a favorite of Ms. Palmer’s, who accepted help in the form of doughnuts baked by his mother (among other things) while he was living at Walden Pond. The problem with Thoreau, in my view, is not that he took his mother’s homemade doughnuts, but that he didn’t acknowledge the gift in his book on self-reliance—-of course the gendered nature of the labor that his mother performed is part of this issue. Ms. Palmer wouldn’t fail to offer thanks in this way; she heaps gratitude on the relevant parties.
On a more serious note, I don’t think she completely owns the mis-step she made when she wrote a poorly-received poem in the aftermath of the Boston marathon bombings. I’m all for empathy, but the way she chose to offer it was poorly timed and ill-considered, at the very least—-and I say that as someone who, with my family, was .3 miles from the infamous boat. I think the often vitriolic and violent response to the poem was completely inappropriate and, as she writes, was difficult for her, but I would have liked to see some sort of re-assessment of the original incident.
Overall, however, Ms. Palmer’s writing is lively with piquant detail, her pacing is good, and her sincerity apparent. I’d like to read more about her adolescence (Why did performance art seem like a good idea? Whence the angst?) and her thoughts on parenthood now that she and Mr. Gaiman have a son. She notes that writing is not her preferred artform, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see a sequel to The Art of Asking in the next few years.
tl;dr: As Forster wrote, “Only connect.”
*I received a copy of this book from the publisher for review purposes, which did not affect the content of my review.
A literary-minded electrician (now out of business, alas) in our neck of the woods.
Rosemary and Reading Glasses 