20 Jan Our Art Makes Life Worth Living
LAST WEEK I took part in the Tokyo Zine Fest, where I sold the first volume of my magazine, Citoyens du Monde (Citizens of the World). This creative milestone was a dream come true, even more special beside my girlfriend Coco, who sold her handmade hats and hoods (find links at the bottom of the story).
I’m experiencing an exciting creative chapter here in Japan, finishing both this magazine and my second book, When the Sky Opens and the Answers Shimmer.
Yet, the world is hurting. We’re all affected, no matter how removed from the pain we might seem as individuals. The fires in Los Angeles, my hometown, have been like a dark cloud over everything.
I’m not in LA, nor did my parents lose their homes. My heart goes out to those who are hurting, those that lost everything. Still, I’ve wondered how to carry on living life; how to help; how to make sense of these incomprehensible circumstances, and how to keep the faith when it feels like the world’s consumed by conflict.
It’s so easy to say, why bother? It’s a fair question. Why? Because we must fight for the world we want to live in. Pursuing what lights us up inside, whatever brings us any semblance of joy, is to fight back and not let the darkness win.
We are all artists, and the world needs what we have. We must be the light in the world, as it’s times like these where we need art, creativity, color, love — the most.
We may lose everything materially. Yet, as countless of those throughout history subjected to war and slavery and horror have proven, we’re never deprived of our ability to create, often something even more profound because of what we’ve endured.
I’ve had chronic pain in my body throughout my twenties. I’ve wanted to give in countless times. Stop trying. Surrender.
Writing has saved me. Through writing, I’ve connected with other individuals dealing with the same thing, and I’ve felt more understood. Writing has allowed me to share how the deepest meaning of my life has come from this adversity, and that’s not just to give others hope, it’s what I need to hear, too.
I write so I may make it through.
We all suffer in one way or another, no matter who we are or where we come from. Our art, our creativity, our passion, our curiosity — however we share the color of our soul — that’s what makes life worth living, the magic that eases the pain, and we can’t give it up for anything.
I’m revisiting an inspiring message from the writer and theologian C. S. Lewis that has helped me carry on before, and is doing so again. Lewis gave this speech at the church of St. Mary the Virgin in Oxford in 1939, right as WWII was breaking out, where he discusses pursuing the arts and humanities despite the world being on the brink of annihilation.
Human life has always been lived on the edge of a precipice . . .
Human culture has always had to exist under the shadow of something infinitely more important than itself . . . We are mistaken when we compare war with normal life. Life has never been normal . . . Plausible reasons have never been lacking, for putting off all merely cultural activities until some imminent danger has been averted or some crying injustice put right. But humanity long ago chose to neglect those plausible reasons. They wanted knowledge and beauty now and would not wait for the suitable moment that never comes . . .
The insects have chosen a different line. They have sought first the material welfare and security of the hive, and presumably they have the reward. Men are different. They propound mathematical theorems in beleaguered cities, conduct metaphysical arguments in condemned cells, make jokes on scaffold, discuss the last new poem, while advancing to the walls of Quebec and comb their hair at Thermopylae. This is not panache. It is our nature.
The human body and the material world are infinitely flawed, susceptible to the whims of the wind and the forces of nature. But the human spirit is unbreakable.
These fires, the wars — it’s all devastating. But will we let that darkness overcome the light which dwells in each of us, or will we stand up to it?
Will we write, take photos, draw, study, dance with our friends, cook with our families, play sports with our kids, scale pianos and mountains and challenge ourselves, no matter how gloomy things seem?
Will we dare to laugh with strangers; will we smile as we walk down the road; will we dare to live and continue fighting on, even amidst this heartache? Years ago I made a decision, and my answer hasn’t changed.
Yes.
We can’t run or hide from these challenges, the sadness. Running won’t change anything. We must face these things, and to face them means allowing ourselves to feel whatever we need to feel.
It’s okay to be sad. Necessary, in fact. It’s okay to pause. To cry. To hurt. To be angry. But we can’t stay that way forever. We must, and we will, keep moving forward.
Making this magazine, the books, the words and the design — this is my salvation, and I will embrace my creativity with everything I have.
I had the idea for my magazine when I was back in LA in September — a home for my articles, photography, and design aesthetic. I worked on the first volume for months, but I intended to put it aside for a bit as I finished When the Sky Opens.
Since being back here, I’d heard about the popularity of zines (essentially small creative magazines) in Japan. I looked up possible zine festivals and came across Zine Fest Tokyo, January 11th, 2025. This was the dream, but the resistance fought back.
You can’t finish it in time! said the resistance. Don’t put the stress on yourself, especially with everything happening in the world right now. I nearly gave in. But Coco wouldn’t have that. We gotta do it, she said. This is such a cool opportunity.
Fuck it. I signed up for the thing, and by doing so, put myself on the hook. Putting ourselves on the hook means signing up for something, going public, saying yes so we don’t have a choice. I could have sat on this thing for the next three months, making it perfect. Now I had a one week deadline. It’s amazing what that can inspire.
I didn’t know how I was going to get this done. It was overwhelming, a strange feeling exacerbated by the fires in LA. I was sad, bewildered, afraid. But I focused on the magazine. There’s a magic in not knowing exactly how things are going to work out, but rolling with it anyway, giving your best.
I hope to one day be on volume 32 of Citoyens du Monde with contributors from around the world, a real publisher and influence. But I’ll never forget cruising around Shinjuku in the winter cold on the way to pick up volume 1, appreciating the lights, the people, the life; I’ll never forget pulling the magazine out of the paper bag at Kinko’s and beaming with joy at the finished product.
Sugoi! I exclaimed, (amazing!). The clerk who had turned the digital product into a physical magazine laughed at my delight. I shoulda hugged him.
There are little nuances that will only be in these first five copies of volume 1, printed at a Tokyo Kinko’s. It’s not perfect, and that’s what makes it awesome. It’s human made, by me.
At the festival, strangers flipped through my magazine and asked about my family in LA. They’re safe. I appreciate that, I told them. Here we are, in awe of this season in life, carrying on with so much to be grateful for. My heart goes out to you all. Keep the faith.
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