I see you, Amanda Palmer constantly repeats, in this book and on her social media. I see you. We are exchanging. There is meaning to every interaction. There is meaning to the artist-fan relationship. I see you.
I was a massive Dresden Dolls fan ten years ago. I remember waiting in an autograph line with a friend after a Dolls show -- a line just like the ones she describes in The Art of Asking, with amazing people on either side of us, chatting about music and cheerfully clutching CDs to our chest. And then, it was my turn. Amanda Palmer & Brian Viglione sat in front of us. I held out my CD, said something admiring, eyes alight ----
and Amanda Palmer took the album out of my hand, turned to Brian, giggled, and stared at him the entire time.
When she gave me back a CD with silver scribbles on it, she clearly hadn't heard a word I'd said.
She didn't see me. She looked right through me.
This interaction has admittedly coloured my subsequent, very conflicted following of Amanda Palmer. As, frankly, hurt as I was by that experience, I'm generally pretty good about separating the art from the artist. But, while I continued to appreciate her undeniable talent, always finding a few good songs on anything she'd release -- I found her public persona troubling. "I'm one of you," she calls from the Twittertops, "crowdfunding and it-would-never-happen-without-you and can I crash on your couch?" Fine. I can believe it was a bad night, or that she was sick of hearing praise, or whatever. I don't doubt all these amazing stories from fans with whom she's connected, for seconds or a lifetime. I can't and wouldn't hold a grudge, because who am I to her, anyway? She doesn't remember me. But I think that's the crux of it: the way she views this asking thing is more one-sided than she wants to believe.
The Art of Asking is a rambling, generally incoherent mess. In some ways, this works to the book's advantage. Palmer's social media feeds are equally stream-of-consciousness-esque; her fans are prepared and ready to accept a little jumping around to get to the point -- and she does, eventually, get there (though man, I'd love to get a word count on the number of "ask"s -- jesus christ, my eyes are tired of reading it). I can see uber-fans ravenously praising this book, which basically amounts to a series of anecdotes, as honest, genuine, brilliant, touching, revolutionary.
I do think it's honest -- though any other of those qualifiers'd be a heavy stretch.
Palmer is not a good writer, let's just please agree on that. She's not a bad writer, just not a good one, or at least not yet. The book itself is seriously flawed. It's as if she took exactly what was in her brain and typed it out on the page -- great for ~getting to know an artist~, not so great for literary merit. Personal revelations, decent grammar, and a few good turns of phrase does not an author make: if that were true, I could publish my old LiveJournal entries and make a mint. This book, Palmer proudly proclaims, was written quickly: it shows (& translates to a quick read; easily finishable in an evening). It's generally engaging, but engaging like listening to a friend tell a long....long.....frequently derailed....story about themselves. At a bar. Over wine. You know: you're into it, but it only makes sense cause of the booze.
So okay sure, honest. But with that honesty comes some traits of which I think Palmer herself is unaware. Pride, superiority-masquerading-as-inferiority, narcissism -- complaints all tossed her way and angrily batted away by the fans, as drunk people were from her Eight-Food Bride statue. And there lies the problem: surround yourself with a community of staunch defenders, and you rarely have to look at what might actually be wrong with the picture. This comes to light many times throughout the book -- not saying AFP's not gone through the ringer in her own way, but she's evidently been told she's a special snowflake for her entire life. That's given her a particular perspective on her situation, her critics, and her personal voice -- and not a particularly attractive or humble one. Strangely, the start of the book is more infuriating than the latter half -- as if she has matured, sort of, but in revisiting her days as a bohemian twenty-something, she turns back into a pretentious artiste.
It frustrates me to write a review so centered on the author as opposed to the text (I guess I'm not as good at separating art/artist as I thought) -- but that's what memoir calls for. Do I feel like I got to know Amanda Palmer better? Sure. Am I less conflicted about her? Not really. Do I feel this book added anything to my life? Not at all -- but then, the lessons she's learning aren't the ones I am, and her book will undoubtedly connect with many other fans (and non-fans). I don't think her actions will change the way music is marketed, nor do I think she's written anything particularly profound -- but maybe that speaks to her own message. Art is there for the taking, but only those who respond to it will give -- praise, or anything else.
I will keep following Palmer on Facebook. I will keep rolling my eyes at her sometimes, and feeling tears well up others (occasionally simultaneously). I will never think she deserves all the praise she gets, nor all the criticism. I don't think, in the end, she should be as polarizing as she is -- for all that, she is just...one of us. And when she really starts believing that, when she stops "giving gifts" of her talent and starts just being present in the encounter, without all the sidestory ----- that will be something actually special.