The concept of “submersive” art — the piece that breaks, that defies its genre — has always been controversial. The Million Dollar Baby’s of the film industry. The Beloved’s of literature.
Every time I’ve stepped into a profile for my latest series, I’m met with the same rules of the ring: the bell sounds, the air tightens, and there is no escape except through what’s in front of you. The page is the opponent, but also the mirror.
What I’ve realized in these conversations is that the work isn’t about resolution, or even about answers. It’s about the willingness to stay with uncertainty, to keep returning to the page even when it offers no clear direction. Again and again, I’ve found that writers and artists are less interested in clarity than in honesty — in showing what it feels like to stand inside the mess without cutting it into something neat.
If there’s anything I’ve learned, though, it’s this: submersive art itself is a myth. Its controversy is a myth. It isn’t about spectacle. It’s not about knockouts or titles. It’s about learning to stand in the water rising around you, or to keep your gloves up through the exhaustion of a long fight.
Clarity is a luxury, and permanence a fantasy. Good writing may only give you one — and that’s ok. All you need to learn is how to keep your hands up, your guard open, and to feel both the punch and the ache that follows. To stay in the ring, even when the ground beneath you won’t stop moving.