Art, Echoes, and Conversations: Crafting a Legacy Through Stories

The Intimate Dance Between Personal Narratives and Our Own Self-doubt

I recently caught up with one of my good friends here in Aarhus, John. He's an incredibly talented digital artist and filmmaker who works as a Technical Director and Lead Compositor but has a flair for all things art, digital or otherwise.

He makes up half of the duo behind Attitude Apoteket, with the other half being Katri, a multidisciplinary artist passionate about self-discovery. Having collaborated with them on multiple creative and artistic projects—some of which are the most significant endeavors I've invested my time, effort, and resources in—I value their opinions highly. So, when I embark on a new project, I reach out for their insights. To put it simply, if you're looking for solid advice on your art project—not just kind words—they're the ones to talk to.

During our meetup, I shared with John the progress of this Substack and my aspirations for the newsletter. "I know you come from an executive role and have a family to support, but whatever you do, please, don't write for the money," he advised. I blinked, twice, lost for words. He continued, "I know I'm one of your paid subscribers, and selfishly, I want you to share your story. I'm less interested in the art and artists you're curating; I care about you and your story." A smile crossed my face as I replied, "Katri said the same thing." John blinked, allowing a thoughtful silence to envelop us.

The little man that defends himself, ever-present in moments of doubt, urged me to protest, "I don't want to bore people with my story." So, I voiced that concern. John raised his eyebrows, countering, "I think you're wrong. You might be tired of your own story, but not many people know it. We have bits and pieces, breadcrumbs, but not the whole picture." The little man that defends himself charged again, pushing me to say, "I want to talk about art and how it has shaped my life." John, peering intently, said, "That's cool, but from your last two posts, I can hardly grasp why you care so much about the art you've featured. If you want to link your life to the art you've experienced, that sounds like a great idea. I just haven't seen it yet in your Substack." This time, The little man that defends himself remained silent—a rare occurrence indeed.

As we finished our coffee and strolled along the river, our conversation meandered through life, fatherhood, and how it has shaken many of my beliefs and guiding principles.

Then, John had an epiphany, "Maybe that's it! Maybe the point of your Substack is to communicate with your son through your writing. Not now, of course, he's too young, but for the future, when he can understand what his father loved about art. You're a Xennial; you can discuss the analog-digital transition you've experienced. There's so much you can write about."

The little man that defends himself was silent, merely breathing heavily, seemingly at a loss for counterarguments.

Our walk was abbreviated by the floods affecting the river area, a consequence of several snowstorms that have battered Aarhus since November. In essence, some paths were simply impassable.

We said our goodbyes, and I promised to reach out after a trip to Madrid in February.

“The little man that defends himself”, as imagined with Midjourney

The little man that defends himself regained his vigour, bombarding me with doubts. "SO? ARE YOU GOING TO CHANGE EVERYTHING JUST BECAUSE HE SAID SO?" I needed time to think, so in response, I played 'Schism' by Tool and silenced the little man.

“I know the pieces fit

'Cause I watched them fall away

Mildewed and smouldering

Fundamental differing

Pure intention juxtaposed

Will set two lovers' souls in motion

Disintegrating as it goes

Testing our communication” - Tool, Schism.

The rest of the day was spent in routine—taking care of my son, preparing lunch, and so forth. As I went to bed, an idea began to crystallize. "I should write this down," I thought, just as sleep claimed me.

"Nah, I'll remember in the morning." And so, I did.

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