Last night shortly before midnight, I started watching Matt Wolf’s documentary Pee-wee as Himself. I was enticed by some headline in my newsfeed that quotes Wolf as saying the process of making the film “almost broke” him (—for those of you who know me personally, you can imagine why I might be intrigued!). Having seen Wolf’s portrait of Arthur Russell last summer at the Walker Art Center, I had high expectations, and yet I was still surprised by the amount of footage and material unearthed by Paul Reubens and Matt’s collaboration, especially given Reubens’ death in 2023 before the completion of the project.
I have only seen Part I, but already, I am mystified. I had no idea Reubens came up through Cal Arts and had this whole conceptual approach to performance. Reflecting back on my memories of him from when I was a child, I guess I do remember the far-out surrealism, but I can only imagine I attributed my experience of that as confirming something I generally believed as a child: movies are better than reality. In other words, I did not really distinguish in an MTV-era what was subversive vs what was commercial, or avant-garde vs popular. Much of what I experienced seemed given to absurdity, and what was cast as outlandish or perverse actually seemed pretty normal to me. A pet theory: I was anesthetized after years of watching the Jerry Springer show; by the time I arrived to college and my then boyfriend wanted to show me John Waters’ Pink Flamingoes, I don’t know if I felt shock or nostalgia. As an adult, I of course know Pink Flamingoes precedes what we might now describe as “trash TV.”
All this is to say: as a child, I was likely too young to appreciate what was singular about Reubens’ gifts; as Reubens himself points out in the documentary, his talents could sometimes be eclipsed by those he collaborated with, and he was both lucky and incredibly thoughtful about who he ended up collaborating with. So it is through no fault of my own that some of the more subtle and truly bizarre aspects of the artist’s performance and creative contributions might have been overlooked by me.
What did I know of performance art? But to see the early footage of Reubens channeling Cher moved me. What a face, undeniable beauty and talent. I began to appreciate how an artist like Julio Torres, whose work I adore, might not exist were it not for the artistic risks assumed by someone like Paul Reubens.
I don’t know if some parable about the cost of stardom is what is coming down the pipeline as I have yet to view Part II. But waking up this morning, I did begin to wonder about Reubens’ commitment to his character: Pee-wee.
Without giving into the temptation of psychoanalyzing the character, the persona (and it is tempting), I began to wonder about the impulse to be seen as one that is at odds with the desire to hide, and how a conceptual art practice might enable a person to live out these tensions. But if one also desires commercial success, fame (which is different than wanting money), what risks does one assume and at what cost to self? (One thing, at least in Part I of this documentary that is notable is that money, or lack thereof, is not narrated as a driving force in Reubens’ decision-making process.)
All this is top of mind for me these days because I’m in the publicity moment before launching the novella June 10th. Pre-publication involves giving interviews, and espousing some narrative about the genesis of the book. Samuel Delaney wrote in About Writing something to the effect of: whatever anyone says about whatever they wrote is just some shit they made up after the fact. I wish I could remember the exact quote, but essentially he is suggesting that these sort of origin stories that readers (and the industry) invest so much energy in crafting and disseminating don’t really tell you all that much about what the artist might have been navigating while in-process.
Knowing this, I thought I might try and document what it’s like, writing a novel. And then transforming and presenting that experience within a fictive framework.
But Delaney is not wrong. I kept thinking about this while watching Paul Reubens retroactively narrate the events of his life. Hm, hindsight sure does paint a very coherent narrative of the self. I understand why documentaries, particularly those that get released need to give into these tropes: that the artist can be known — (I’m thinking of the incredible essay by Sasha Weiss about the nine hour Prince documentary that will likely never enter into public circulation)— to Wolf’s credit, he does include a selection of moments from the 40 hours worth of interviews with Reubens that occasionally flirts with the possibility that perhaps he cannot.
I did find myself wondering about a version of Reubens who joins whatever spin-off version of The Cockettes. It’s hard not to equate the ambition, the drive with careerism, the up-and-up-and up to some version of Icarus. Reubens’ story might be neatly encapsulated by some other kind of truism like: Motherfucker flew too close. But that doesn’t sit right either. Reubens was clearly talented and worked hard, tried a lot of different ideas on before betting it all on Pee-wee; he also seemed energized by his success. What else is an aspiring artist who experiences success to do but aspire?
I’ve been struggling with how to narrate in public, or even privately, the experience of writing the novel. I aspired. Last Fall, when I was finishing the edits, more than one friend texted me screenshots from a book another writer friend of mine had published. The essay is titled, “Notes on Ambition (aka Notes on Survival).” People were texting me pictures because something I tweeted was quoted in it: “Not prolific. Just afraid of dying.” I don’t remember writing this; I also deleted my Twitter several months before I re-encountered this moment in book form. Seeing myself mirrored in that context (“On Ambition”) definitely kicked up some feelings. Putting out a novel and finding a way to retroactively narrate my intentions in such a manner as to generate interest and provoke fascination is kicking up feelings too. It’s almost as if I imagine, like Reubens, that the truth, compared to the fiction, might be disappointing.
What to say about what we make? There was an existential moment in class the other night where we paused on the question of: “What do we do this for?” This is not the same question as: “What are the stakes?” which is a question I generally loathe; its appearance sends waves of rage and resentment through my body. I am genuinely curious why artists go in pursuit of art— the pursuit is irrational. And in the case of Reubens, the success alongside the ambition, and the cost of a life spent in a closet... it is hard to reconcile that a life in art (or at least a commercially viable one) is worth the cost. And yet because my book and the experiment which led me to embark in that sort of tradition (Lee Lozano’s Dropout Piece is a formidable influence) is not an easy sell, I do find myself floundering, especially if you as the artist do not feel the world is really in a place to appreciate everything that goes into “the work.” How to navigate these feelings with grace without also lapsing into arrogance (“you just don’t get it!”).
I also frequently ask myself if the nature of my chosen social or artistic entanglements suggests to others that perhaps I am not an ambitious person. I don’t have an agent. I don’t have a tenure-track job. I did go to school. I do regularly publish. And as I’ve been doing this for while, I happen to have some friends. I appear to have all the prerequisites to make more than what I would describe as a very modest living. While I might understand the amount of money one generates relative to one’s effort or talent have little to no correlation in this line of work, I frequently encounter people who believe otherwise. Navigating these misperceptions does take some doing.
One of the things I felt inspired by watching Reubens was how many of his friends were also artists; he brought them along for the ride. At least that’s how it appears in the documentary. What do I really know of the artist’s tempers. The documentary is very focussed on the artist, “the vision.” The realization of that dream and its effect on mass culture are astounding given Reubens’ humble beginnings. Whereas I can’t help but admire the ambition, the drive, I do wonder about the extent to which careerism, a very fixed obsession with “the ladder,” may be at odds with the creative spirit. I also wonder how ambition can lead one to be in relation with other arts-adjacent types and personalities (agents, managers, starfuckers) whose economic and parasocial interests take precedence over love of the artist and love of the arts. These are the questions I’m carrying as I meet my own desire to live—beyond survive— and if I can live off my art. But not at the expense of my art, and certainly not at the expense of my person.