Community is Hard - But it’s Worth It

A few months ago, I started a new online coworking group. I called it Monday Morning Strategy Sessions, because it was on Monday mornings and I thought people could use the time to plan their weeks. That's what I do on Monday mornings, after all.

To my delight, lots of people showed up on the first day. I was so excited to give folks a space to get things done.The people who come to the Monday morning group tell me the focused work time is very helpful — lots of things do get done.

But to my surprise, it turned out the real magic of my Monday morning meetups happens between work blocks, when we talk. We chew over problems, bounce ideas off each other, share experiences and knowledge, and inspire each other. It’s a community.

Photo by Vonecia Carswell on Unsplash

Community is important

Humans are social animals. Millennia of evolution has furnished us with not just the capacity to work together, but the need to. We can only survive, at the most fundamental level of food and safety, in groups.

In the modern world, food and shelter can be purchased with money. Money serves as a proxy for the mutual trust and interdependence of community. And so, because it seems like you don't need community for physical safety, people have come to think that community is an optional extra, a would-be-nice.

In fact, community is a must-have. As I learned at the beginning of 2020, community gives so much beyond food and shelter.

Get those brains (but not in a zombie way)

Community exposes us to new ideas and experiences. It's a place where we can see the world through new eyes.

By being in community with others, we are able to tap into their brain power. As I learned a few weeks ago, by thinking along with other people (or as a normal person might put it, "having a conversation") you can reduce cognitive bias, tap into others' memories, and take advantage of different ways of solving problems than the ones we'd come up with alone.

A recent New Scientist article tried to answer the question, can we change our personality[paywall]? Can we change things like how conscientious we are, or how agreeable. The article concluded that, yes, those things are malleable to a degree — but more interesting to me was a letter to the editor in the next issue.

In response to the article, reader James Buzolic wrote:

People who see enough good in us to be our friends can make up for what we lack, organising us if we lack conscientiousness, coaxing us to outings or accompanying us on that world trip or visit to a museum or art gallery. We, too, can be that kind of person for others. We don't have to have it all ourselves.

We don’t have to have it all ourselves.

Shared humanity

We need other humans to remind us that we're more alike than we think.

Self-compassion is a three-step process that starts with allowing yourself to feel difficult feelings, and ends with speaking to yourself kindly, as if you were speaking to a beloved friend.

The middle step of self-compassion is "recognition of shared humanity". That is, realizing that what you're going through is actually a common experience.

Author Kerry Clare has a maxim that says, The answer to the question, 'Am I the only one who...?' is always 'No'.

No, you are not the only one.

Community gives you direct confirmation of Clare’s Maxim, and so fuels the middle step of self-compassion. It’s hard to feel like you are uniquely flawed when you have just spent time with wonderful people who do, and feel, the same things you do and feel.

Community is especially important for artists

If community is important for all humans, it's even more important for artists.

My friend, artist and community organizer Tanya Murdoch, observes that artists tend to silo themselves. There's a tendency to hole yourself up and work on projects by yourself for days, weeks, or month.

And to be sure, sometimes that uninterrupted time is exactly what you need to complete your work. But too much time in your own head is good for neither artist nor art.

There's a myth of the lone artist, the reclusive genius, and sometimes withdrawing, temporarily, can result in great art. But much more often, Mozarts need their Haydns. Group of Seven members need their other six.

Being in community with other artists gives you inspiration. Your colleagues offer new ideas and perspectives to broaden the references that inform your art. They can introduce you to new histories, media, stories, and ways of seeing that will enrich your work.

Sharing your process and your journey — and yes, your troubles — with other artists can provide comfort. There's no hurdle so obscure, so singular, that someone else hasn't already come up against it. Even if other artists can't give you advice, just knowing that others have survived the same trouble can be encouraging.

Being engaged with other artists is helpful in pragmatic ways, too. Networking is for artists, too — it’s just knowing people who know other people who might be interested in the same things you're interested in. It's amazing to me how many different people are working on the same kinds of things without knowing each other.

Talking to other artists is also a good way to learn about things like competitions and grants, publications and shows that are looking for submissions, and other materially useful leads. People know things.

But Community is Scary

If community is so great, why don't we do it more? Why is it easier to hunker down with your paints or your keyboard and work alone?

Because to be in community you have to be seen, and that’s terrifying.

As Timothy Kreider says, "if we want the rewards of being loved, we must submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known".

The double-edged sword of other humans is that while they can give you so much, they can also cause a lot of pain. And if you have a history of being hurt by other people (hi, I was bullied every school day between the ages of seven and twelve) it can be really hard to throw yourself open to the view of other people. It seems so much safer to stay in your little hole. Sure, you're in a hole, but also no-one can hurt you in your hole.

Being in community is vulnerable. We're going out into the world and saying, "This is me" and hoping against hope that we don't get shamed or shunned (or worse) for it. Like I said at the top, being part of a group is existential for humans — the threat of not being accepted is no less than a threat to our very survival.

Of course that's terrifying.

But you know what else is terrifying?

Making art.

Making art is vulnerable in exactly the same way as being in community is vulnerable — you're putting a piece of yourself out into the world for the view of anyone who happens to come across it.

And most artists have figured out how to navigate that — how to create enough emotional distance between themselves and their art to be able to share it without (too much) agony. And they've decided that the rewards of creating and sharing are worth the discomfort.

If you can do art, you can do community. That stuff you know about creating, sharing, guarding your deepest sense of self, and recovering from hurt, are all as applicable to sharing yourself in a community as they are to sharing your art.

And just like making art, being in community is worth the risk.

It's about Company, not Strategy

In the fertile ground of my Monday morning co-working group, so many seeds have been planted. People have gained a new perspective on their work, come up with new ways to describe themselves, shared new work for the first time, and introduced each other to organizations and other artists. We encourage, we celebrate, we support.

The community aspect of the Monday morning group was so obviously the important thing that after the first round of meetings, I changed the name of the group, and Monday Morning Strategy Sessions became Monday Morning Creative Company.

It turns out who you travel with is as important as how you travel.