I do suffer from depression, I suppose. Which isn’t that unusual. You know, a lot of people do. —Amy Winehouse
I’m not sure that I have known any artist, regardless of their medium or level of skill, or financial success, that hasn’t battled with depression. Some more frequently than others, perhaps. Some seem to live in that state to such a degree I’m not sure they could function otherwise. All of us, though, endure those depressive periods where all seems hopeless.
Tales of great beauty and art coming out of depressive fits are cliché. Could Hemingway have written Old Man and the Sea if he’d been sober the whole time? Would the songs of Amy Winehouse have struck such a deep chord if she had been happier and more “well-adjusted?” Coming up with examples of famous creatives who had their bouts with depression is about as easy as walking into Starbucks and ordering coffee: you have plenty of choices.
Those stories are all anecdotal at best, though, if not somewhat apocryphal. Is there actual science behind this theory, and is our depression for the better or the worst? One of the books I’ve read this summer is Imagine: How Creativity Works  by Jonah Lehrer. There is much in this book that I might reference at another time, but what strikes me most this morning is his chapter dealing with drug use and depression among creatives. What is generally perceived as antisocial behavior may, from a scientific standpoint, be part of the very thing that makes us creative.
Needing Inspiration
Lehrer approaches the subject of creative depression by examining how creative inspiration develops in the brain. He notes that observation of “sadness” among creatives has been observed for centuries, even as far back as Aristotle, who said:
… all men who have attained excellence in philosophy, in poetry, in art and in politics, even Socrates and Plato, had a melancholic habitus; indeed some suffered even from melancholic disease.”
If all creatives have this problem with “melancholia,” however, how do we turn that into something creative? Â The answer lies in how that depression causes us to focus. Our perspective during moments of depression, especially when things are at their absolute worst, puts us in a position to see solutions we would not otherwise consider.
Joe Forgas, a psychologist at the University of New South Wales has demonstrated multiple times that moments of depression “sharpens the spotlight of attention, allowing us to become more observant and persistent.” To some degree, one might even say that the state of melancholia forces us into a creative place because it is necessary for us to survive.
Depressive Determination
Is depression absolutely a critical part of creativity? Not in every case, of course. Still, there is a lot of evidence that it is periods of sadness and worry, both long and short, that lead us to create a perfect masterpiece. Nancy Andreasen, a neuroscientist at the University of Iowa in the early 80s, found that  80 percent of writers met the diagnostic criteria for depression. Why?
Because being creative isn’t easy. Nietzsche, in Human, All Too Human, referenced the notebooks of composer Ludwig van Beethoven noting the countless revisions he would make to his compositions. Over and over and over he would work a phrase until it was exactly what he wanted to hear. What came across to the public as inspired genius was actually the result of hours of dedicated, highly skilled work. Granted, it was the work of a musical genius, but the fits of melancholia he suffered, his fear of failure and rejection, drove him to refine this work until there were no errors.
Too often, I think, we expect creativity to just come flowing out from us like turning on a tap. We don’t stop to think that those hours spent filling in the details, proofing and re-proofing a text, editing and re-editing and even re-re-editing an image, are all just as much a part of the creative process as the initial  burst of putting something on paper, or canvas, or pixels.When we are depressed, it is actually easier for us to linger over a piece of art, a line of poetry, or a phrase of music and play with it until we have it just right.
No Romance
Being creative isn’t all this romantic smarminess that one imagines might come with public acceptance of one’s work. Creatives have for centuries relied on drugs, alcohol, and sex to fuel them through the struggle and pain of the creative process. Our work is more than just a moment of inspiration. Once we have an idea or concept, it can be a prolonged battle to actually turn that idea into something ready for public consumption.
Creatives are, as a group, highly disturbed individuals. Lehrer references recent research by Hagop Akiskal showing that “nearly two-thirds of a sample of influential European artists were bipolar.” We swing between that moment of “Aha! I have an idea,” and the malaise of depression that comes with actually following through on that idea. Not all of us make it. Many wonderful projects are dropped because the emotional and/or mental pain of seeing them through is too great. We chase our depression with more drugs, more alcohol, and our addiction to the high that comes with the moment of inspiration ultimately kills us. We overdose looking for that next perfect music hook, or that next great lyric, or that next world-changing photograph.
Creative life isn’t easy. We need encouragement. We need camaraderie. We need places that are safe for us to work through the details. We need friends who understand this process, this whole thing about being creative has the power to kill us if not kept in check. The shadow is always looking, waiting to drag us to the depths.
Creative depression that becomes too severe can ruin us. We lose sight of what we were creating. The pain prevents the work from being done. We need help, not just from professionals (though, that is certainly an option more of us should consider), but from a supportive community, both online and in person, that has the ability to understand and be supportive.
Creativity can kill, but it doesn’t have to. Â Now that we understand a little better, perhaps we can be more communicative in being and finding that support we all need.
The Sexy Party Is Real
Warning: Explicit Content
In life, you have people that love to party. That’s me. People that love God. That’s me. People that love sex. That’s me. People that love people. That’s me. And people that make mistakes. That’s me also. —R. Kelly
The sexy party you dreamed about is real, but chances are you’re not invited
Update: The response to our application took a bit more than the 48 hours advertised, but late last evening the email finally came through:
Your subscription has been updated, and you can log in by going to http://litterbox.killingkittens.com/(deleted for privacy)
We are quite surprised! We’re definitely not members of high society and if they were checking our bank balance they were almost certainly disappointed. This makes us wonder exactly what their criteria for membership are? If we can get approved I wouldn’t expect the bar to be set too terribly high. Although, at the same time, it may simply be that they don’t have many members from this part of the country and are looking to grow. That would rather make sense to some degree, I suppose.
What I do know is that there were several hits on this website (particularly this story) from London and New York shortly after it was published. I’m guessing that they looked at our photography page as well, though both of our personal pages are locked down and private. Did they talk to our friends? Did they confirm employment? Did they do any kind of background check? If so, no one has told us.
So, we’ll continue and see what happens. Should we find out more, we will most certainly let you know!
Here’s the original story:
Yes, that’s really explicit.
No, it’s not who you think it is.
No, it’s not them, either (whoever “them” may be). Just stop trying to guess. Identity is irrelevant in this situation. The picture is an illustration, an attempt to get your attention, as if the term “sexy party” didn’t have it already. The picture also defines the level of party we’re talking about. This gets deep so hold on and try to enjoy the ride.
Back in 1990, before many of you were even old enough to think of such things, Stanley Kubrick captured the world’s attention when he set the movie Eyes Wide Shut around an underground community of sensual desire involving luscious and lavish masked sex parties.  That theme has been used and re-used hundreds if not thousands of times since then for masked, sexy parties, especially at night clubs in large cities where women wearing lingerie out for the night isn’t really all that big a deal.
If you tell me that you’ve not thought at least once about what it would be like to attend such a party, I’ll call you a liar. We all have. And I’ve even heard tell of a few instances where someone tried to re-create that masked party theme, but they were never as lavish (a warehouse as the location? C’mon …) and never quite as sexy (is there anyone here not using Viagra?) as one might imagine. Sexy parties the magnitude of those seen in Kubrick’s movie are so rare, so difficult to produce, that we’ve often wondered if they actually exist at all.
Apparently, they do. We just live in the wrong place to be invited to the party.
In the deluge of articles being thrown at me, I came across this one a couple of weeks ago with the intriguing headline: The Roving Sexy Party Coming To The Hamptons This Summer. Okay, a headline like that is going to get my attention every time. Â Although, there is a bit of immediate disappointment in that it mentions the Hamptons, that lovely summer homestead of the super-rich to which we mere mortals are not allowed access. Everything is gated. Everything is by invitation only. The Hamptons are not for we mortals. I’m not sure even Bernie Sanders can get in here.
What’s happening, though, is a coming to America of a British sex party concept that apparently has been working quite well across the pond. We’ve always suspected that those uptight Brits were a bit more cheeky than they let on and it would seem now that we have the proof.
The sponsoring organization has a rather morbid name, though, Killing Kittens certainly doesn’t sound sexy, and if it’s a party it doesn’t sound like the kind that is legal in the United States. But then, perhaps that’s part of the cover. Who would think to go looking for an underground event with a name that invokes feline homicide? The actual events, though, do not involve the harming of any animals, except for maybe your boyfriend.
When I went searching for more information about these parties (because, you know, journalistic curiosity and all that) I found the explanation on their Facebook page (yeah, that’s really underground) more helpful than anything on their website. It reads, in part:
Killing Kittens was launched in 2005 to both address and grow the demand from young, attractive, charismatic couples and single girls for decadent, hedonistic, female focused parties.
Killing Kittens parties create an environment for people, especially girls, to explore their sexuality in a daring yet safe and controlled environment without the seediness associated with the traditional ‘scene’. The parties are held at intriguing and glamorous international locations; from a New York penthouse to a yacht in St. Tropez. They have attracted the rich and famous and generated immense media excitement as being at the centre of the world’s newest and coolest underground party scene. Marie Claire declared that Killing Kittens has now become synonymous with the world’s ‘sexual elite’.
Again, I’m not so convinced about this whole “underground” thing if Out, The Cut, and Marie Claire all know about it. Those are not exactly low-circulation rags, there, ya’ know? If everyone knows about the parties, are they still “underground?”
What’s interesting, and likely most attractive about the Killing Kittens parties is that they are female-focused. In fact, the whole company is owned by one Emma Sayle, a British socialite who just happened to go to the same school as the Duchess of Cambridge. This gives the parties a very different edge from the pictures Kubrick planted in our minds. With the women in control, the party isn’t as likely to be as much of a sausage-fest, but it is also likely to be a bit more lively as women, especially those in the Hamptons, are still enamored with the S&M flurry started with Fifty Shades of Grey and now continued, so I’m told, with the HBO series Billionaire (I understand the 12th episode is where things get spicy). The parties are apparently popular among “pussy whisperers,” that is, women who have same gender flings just for the summer.
Yeah, let’s make that phrase go viral. Go ahead.
My curiosity not yet satiated (is it ever?), I visited the Killing Kittens website to see just how filthy rich one had to be to even join their little club. Turns out, it’s not all that expensive, at least not up front. Their basic membership is $15 (US) a month. They do have a free option, but that doesn’t include party invitations and without the party invitations what’s the point? They also offer a special designation for those over 45, if one wishes to make that disclosure. That doesn’t seem all that exclusive, does it?
So, I went ahead and signed us up for a couples membership just to see what would happen. The first step was rather straight-forward personal information like one would find on any dating site: age, height, body type, religious preference, drinking, smoking, etc. They encourage uploading pictures for the vetting process and promise that those pictures will be kept private. Nothing unusual, nothing overtly erotic, and nothing expressly limiting that would have me bailing out and running in fear of my life. Yet.
I’m betting that the vetting process will somehow eliminate us from consideration. Hell, this article is likely to eliminate us from consideration; it’s not like I’m hiding what I write. Still, the more insight we can get into this allegedly underground playground for the super-rich, the more we can stoke our own dreams of perhaps one day being elite enough to attend one of these oh-so-exclusive parties.
Not that we would know what to do once we got there. Nope, not us. Not a clue. Totally innocent here. Totally. This is just journalistic curiosity. I promise.
Or maybe we just have our own party. I have ice cream. Vanilla.
Share this:
Like this: