On Being Inspired by Bad Art

Most of the time people talk about being inspired by good art, and being bored and turned off by bad art. But what about bad art that inspires you to make good art?

Maybe it sounds facetious but I’m serious. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. It’s true of any genre. Some of my best ideas have come to me when I was sitting through an endless monotonous play, or listening to a one note, cheesy singer-songwriter, or walking through a lame gallery with timid paintings and no guts on display.

In fact, one of the breakthroughs that allowed me to have more confidence as a songwriter was when I suddenly realized how many bad, boring, tuneless songs exist. I mean if you listen to hot country on the radio (which I love by the way) -- most songs aren’t even complete sentences or an actual melody. It’s a dude in a low voice speak-singing phrases that are shorthand for American country pride.

Like this:



Oh, and you have to listen to International Harvester. Actually I think this song is kind of good:



Oh god or this one. Trace Adkins is such a douche. They won’t let me embed the video but I highly suggest you go watch it so you can enjoy a totally racist and sexist video. Oh man I’m watching it now. The Asian dude strikes out, the pitcher does a karate kid move to make fun of him, then Trace gets up to bat and hits a home run and beckons to the slutty lady they’ve all been trying to impress. Then she tries to hit a few balls and can’t even hold up the bat. Wow. CLASSY, Trace.

Okay I’m getting off track. Point is, does that even count as a song? The answer is YES IT DOES. And once I realized that I didn’t feel like such a fake trying to write my own.

But since my field is theater and performance, I have to say that the bulk of my bad art inspirations come when I’m watching a horrifically boring play. Usually one that’s three hours and I can’t leave at intermission so I know I’m stuck there. Something about this distressing state of lockdown makes my mind go to a different plane. Solutions that had previously eluded me appear before me whole, something that wasn’t quite a song gels, an image of how whatever I’m working on could begin is suddenly clear. And little dancing chipmunks bring me cocoa and pie.

Now, this also happens when I’m on a long hike (the inspirations, not the dancing chipmunks). And I’d rather be on a long hike than sitting through bad art. But it is useful when I find myself trapped there with no escape.