Sisyphus Was An Artist

How an ancient myth about eternal torment is making me rethink the creative process.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Sisyphus.

In case you had friends in high school and are not intimately familiar with ancient Greek mythology: Sisyphus was a Grecian king who - like many a Silicon Valley bro - believed he could outsmart death. And as it turns out, he was! He managed it. Twice. Without even getting his - er - CBCs checked, or whatever.

Enraged by the mortal’s hubris, the Gods sentenced Sisyphus to his now-infamous punishment: he would have to push a boulder up a hill. Simple enough, right? Once he reached the summit - once the rock was resting solidly at the mountain’s peak - only then would he be able to walk away a free man, immortality achieved, the online haters thwarted.

Except, of course, he never would.

Each time our Silicon Valley King got close enough for his heart to skip, his breath to catch, a smile to quirk his pale, cracking lips - the boulder would slip free, barreling back down the mountainside until it settled at its starting point with a loathsome, pathetic wobble. Soaked in sweat and bitter disappointment, he would then begin his long descent back to square one, bracing to start the whole endeavor over again.

Frankly? I know the feeling.

If you’re an artist, you probably understand the heart-tumbling torment of Sisyphus’s punishment more than most. To create things in this world - whether it’s movies, music, novels, paintings, a ceramic bowl you thought would be easy to make so you signed up for a four-week class but it’s actually really hard so now you’re crying and covered in clay - is to stand at the base of a mountain day in and day out, arms weary, legs shaking, back spasming from the effort - and heave that boulder skyward, slowly pushing your ideas towards the mountain’s imagined peak.

And we’ve all watched helplessly as our boulders came tumbling down -

It’s a pass. Someone else did it first. The bridge isn’t catchy enough. No one bought the piece. The executive who bought it left. The timing isn’t right. The market. The marketability. It’s too dark. It’s too bright. It’s too. It’s not. It’s almost.

And sometimes, in equal agony, it’s finished.

And it’s great!

And the Boulder comes down anyway.

Even when the book is published, the paint drying, the Oscar speech written, the song available on Spotify. We stare at our boulder for a brief, breathless moment - the taste of freedom on our tongues, in our noses, in our souls - only to watch it tip back, gravity grabbing hold with two fists and yanking it down to earth, the old refrain starting anew:

What’s next? What’s next? What’s next?

In case it’s not obvious: I just started a new project. Once again, I find myself standing at the base of that hill, neck craned upward at the daunting height of the ambition, the steep angle of the idea. Here I am, once more, ready to strain and shove with all of my strength…only to be certain that in success or failure, that rock is gonna to roll back down again. I’ll be looking at that dreaded blinking cursor once more, the blank page laughing at me like Zeus from high on Olympus. It’s exhausting. It’s infuriating.

And this time, it’s going to be different.

The French philosopher Albert Camus (YES, I know, yawn, but stick with me here!!!), was also quite obsessed with our tech-bro King. He famously reimagined the whole myth in a boring but important essay, which ends with the only important line:

“One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

One must imagine - Sisyphus. Happy.

Camus, of course, was not talking about art. He was talking about laundry. And dishes. And your coworker’s general incompetence. The everyday inevitabilities that make life feel…relentless. He felt strongly that, in order to survive it all, we must fall in love with the struggle. My outlook is not quite as bleak, or as French.

But as I start this new project, I am trying to take his advice.

We all have our lofty ideas of what lies at the top of that mountain. Maybe it’s legacy, or financial freedom. To be seen and heard and loved. To make sense of the human experience in a way that connects with others. Maybe, like Sisyphus himself, it’s even a kind of immortality. But if the promise of what’s waiting at the summit is our only engine, the grueling day-to-day work - the off-key chords, the awkward rehearsals, the truly embarrassing first drafts - becomes unbearable. We risk losing the reasons we turned to art in the first place.

We risk becoming Sisyphus: so obsessed with the end result, he never noticed how strong he was becoming.

So, as I set my calloused hands against the cold, hard stone this time around, I’m determined to fall back in love with the process. With the sound my fingers make as they furiously clamp down on keys. With the silly little candle that I light each time I start a session, next to the silly little crystals I definitely don’t believe work but keep on my desk anyway. With the frustration of reaching helplessly for a word that simply refuses to come. With the agonizing days where no words come at all.

I’m trying to imagine Sisyphus happy.

And when I do inevitably reach that terrifying peak? When the draft is done, the final edit in, this essay published? I will smile, step back, and let it roll down once again.

What’s next? What’s next? What’s next?