Let me tell you about a TED Talk that has me writing this: Amie McNee’s We Need Your Art.
This hit me mid–paint war with an 8-foot alien sculpture for a toy store. It was not going well. Three airbrushes, two HVLP sprayers, me wishing I had eight arms—and still coming up short. Two airbrushes broke, my compressor hose was MIA, and my patience was bleeding out faster than my paint. A good friend finally rescued me with wine, food, and a spare hose, but by then I knew the truth: this alien wasn’t going to be finished by the September 27th deadline (also my birthday).
If you know me, you know I don’t quit. I’ll fight my way through a 68-hour work week and still say yes to painting a blue extraterrestrial on my “time off.” But even I had to wave the white flag. I called the client, braced for disappointment, and instead got grace (bless you, client angels). I didn’t give up—I declared a truce with my outer-space nemesis and started cleaning up the wreckage.
That’s when I stuck in my earbuds and found Amie’s TED Talk.
She starts by naming the obvious—yes, the world is literally and figuratively on fire. And then she dares to say the thing most people roll their eyes at: the way forward is through art. Cue the skeptics in the back: “Cute idea, Amie, but my horny fairy fantasy novel isn’t going to stop climate change.” She leans in, fire in her eyes: give me 15 minutes and I’ll change your mind.
And she does.
Art Is Not Frivolous
This is the lie we’ve all swallowed—that art is selfish, decorative, a “bonus” if you’ve got extra time. McNee calls it out as the most harmful narrative of our time. Art isn’t indulgence; it’s oxygen. It’s a connection. It’s how we survive.
And when she says “art,” she means everything: your shower song, your soup recipe, your Pokémon YouTube rant. If it’s made with the intention to connect, it’s art. Which means—you, me, all of us.
This concept is one I have subscribed to my entire life: Our Life is OUR ART. The things we wear, the cars we buy, the way we show up in the world, and the way we move through our homes and spaces. It is all a composition. You can either be conscious of it or not; the choice is yours.
Creativity Is the Missing Pillar
We hack our mornings, hydrate, meditate, optimize, and track our steps. But where’s the twenty minutes of doodling? Where’s the permission to play? McNee calls creativity the missing pillar of self-development. Without it, we’re efficient but hollow. Full calendars, empty souls.
This one hit me like a truth bomb because it’s exactly what I preach: inspiration isn’t something you wait for—it’s something you live.
I have been advocating for creativity and play for a long time. It’s so important. And I can tell you when I run into someone who says, “I have no creative talent”. My heart breaks a little. It’s just not true. What I think is true is that those who say this have not yet found their creative outlet. And the only way to do that is to play.
Agency, Attention, and Rebellion
When the world feels meaningless, making something hands you back your agency. You matter. You see your impact. You get to be the god of your own little world.
And creating is rebellion. In a culture that profits off our endless scrolling, choosing to make instead of consume is a radical act. McNee drops the gut punch: three hours of daily scrolling equals ten years of your life. Ten years. Imagine what you could leave behind if you gave those years to your own work instead of Zuckerberg’s algorithm.
Art as Activism & The Human Answer to AI
She’s ruthless with guilt: stop believing that your piano practice or romance novel is frivolous when the world is burning. Art is activism. Policy changes laws, but art changes hearts. Culture shifts when we dare to show up in our messy, human voices.
And the AI excuse? Forget it. Machines might be faster, but they’ll never be human. What we crave isn’t flawless perfection—it’s fingerprints, cracks, and heartbeat.
It’s a connection.
And, to be perfectly honest, I am an artist, and I do feel like, why should I be creating when the world is on fire? It’s a real thing.
I had a conversation the other day with a musician friend of mine. He said, “I’ve worked at this for 50 years, it’s not a phase. My expression through music is not a phase. It is who I am. And I feel like I have been doing this long enough that people might believe me.”
My response: It is not a phase. It is who we are.
Legacy and the Antidote
McNee saves the knockout punch for last: Your art is the antidote to someone’s pain, and you’re hoarding it.
I am so guilty of this. I have a two-terabyte hard drive storing ALL of my art, travel, and combined antics since 2008. I am obsessed with documenting. I hardly get a chance to keep up with it and get out there. The closest I get is this blog and hearing myself saying, One day I will give myself the gift of creating for an entire year. Then I get phone calls about TV shows and aliens. Who can say no to that?
My Takeaway
Listening to Amie felt like she was reading my own manifesto back to me. This is why I paint. This is why I write. This is why I keep dragging you through the chaos toward your own True North, even when the compass feels busted.
Inspiration isn’t pretty—it’s survival. It’s how we reclaim our attention, our agency, our sanity. Art isn’t what you do after the “real work.” Art is the work. It’s how you leave the world better than you found it. And that, my friends, has been my motto since 2016, when my husband died: Leave people better than you found them.
So let me echo Amie one more time:
We need your creativity.
We need you to feast on your inspirations.
We need your fingerprints all over this wild, messy, burning world.
Otherwise, who are we gonna blame when the robots take over and all we’ve left behind are color-coded calendars and hollow souls?
Don’t keep it to yourself. And I promise you this: if you show me yours, I’ll keep showing you mine.
And I’m gonna start with sharing something I haven’t shared before. Here is an excerpt from my memoir. The one I hope to publish by 2026:
Play. Hit play. It’s the middle button on the top. Remind yourself. Hit play.
My cassette is in the player and I am staring at the buttons again. It’s May 2018. I don’t know the exact date — all I know is that it doesn’t matter to me anymore in real time. It’s just a reference point for how many days I have lived without you.
I changed the entire house. I trip over stacks of papers, and the backyard looks like a scene from Grey Gardens. In the basement, you have been reduced to black lawn-and-leaf bags (the commercial size, of course) and blue plastic totes. A whole life, somehow organized into disposable items — a system that, if I died, no one would understand.
Despite all this, I feel pretty good. Sometimes I even feel guilty for how good I feel. My life is moving again — in that ever-flowing current. I don’t carry the same fears I did a month ago, because I hit play.
In the dormer of my bedroom sits everything from hospice and your funeral that I cannot bear to open. Every time I walk past it, I know it is there. Your ashes were on an altar I made for you, but I dismantled it two days ago because I was tired of staring at what was. Living with the dead of you is harder than living with you.
Don’t get stuck on pause. Remember, Jolene — hit play again, I tell myself. Hitting play means I’ve rejoined the Game of Life when I’d rather be playing Monopoly. Park Place has a better view than my bedroom window, but it’s all I’ve got, so here we go. People comment on my grace after you. I feel like my grace is wearing a pair of stilettos with one broken heel — I can barely walk in them. But placing one foot in front of the other, even if I’m tripping over myself, I’m doing it.
When you were alive and it was at its height, I remember saying, “I’m losing my shit.” You said, “Don’t say that.” It was true then. It’s true now. It’s a constant struggle to keep my shit together. It was real then, and it’s real now — as real as my mom finding me in the water aisle of the grocery store, staring at the bottles. She came up to me and asked, “Jolene, are you okay?” I said, “I don’t know what I’m looking at. I don’t know what I’m doing here,” and tears streamed down my face. I didn’t know why water bottles were making me cry, or why standing in that damn aisle with carts rolling felt like a highway at the back of my ankles. That was real.
Keep reading for the rest of “Hit Play” — my story of survival and recalibration— Subscribe now to unlock this private archive and get early access to the book-in-progress.