A possible answer to your first question, at least how it applies to me: At the intersection of art and technology, I realized recently that the Greater Internet was hampering my progress. By which I mean large public content sharing and delivery services.
Imagine if you try to practice a skill you're bad at like pottery, but all the windows in your house are open and random people you don't know come right up to them and stare at your work at arbitrary times. Even worse, it's nearly always dark outside so you can never tell when they're looking anymore. But sometimes, at unpredictable times, you can hear a fist knocking or a random phrase uttered at you from outside.
Even if you don't know their faces or reactions, or even if they exist at all, you just can't help but believe they're thinking something of you. And logic dictates that even if they don't happen to think something bad of your skill, their positivity is only transient as they're still strangers to you.
That sensation breeds paranoia, and I realized if I wanted to hone an artistic skill I needed to discard the Internet entirely and fiercely protect my individuality at all costs. My artistic muse is not to be given away for free so that people can point and gawk at it; it is far too valuable. There is only one me in the entire world, and they are irreplaceable.
I believe this is one of the main reasons most artists keep their processes a secret. Baring your entire soul for the world all the time is exhausting. What is released publicly is only a highly refined and focused sliver of such a soul, and the rest is tightly protected from prying eyes.
For me, the Internet was a red herring to being an artistic person. "Chock full of all the world's information," you understand, but also chock full of many other inseparable elements that are too stressful to be worth it. Thankfully realizing this means I can cut down my smartphone usage to 10 minutes a day at most; far too many important things to work on instead.
The most I will ever accept from the Internet is practical advice on how to accomplish certain techniques, but the rest I had no choice but to discard to have any hope at improvement and positive well-being. That includes professional critique online. I used to hang on to the belief I needed people on the Internet to judge me so I could improve, even if they were actual teachers, but I realized I could just as easily get private lessons in the real world. I feel a better connection to human instructors than chat threads. And a lot of art involves the perception of the world as it really is, not a virtual counterpart to it.
I feel like you've expressed something I've been struggling to put into words for awhile now.
Sometime around a decade ago, a switch flipped for me and "being online" in such a transparent way just felt incredibly uncomfortable for me. And for some reason this drastic change has been so curious to me for awhile. Because I actually am someone who loves discourse. I enjoy talking to strangers and learning about them (in moderation) and I've never had a problem having a pointed opinion and discussing it. Back when FB felt "small" and had a greater balance of text posts vs images/video, I relished posting and discussing with my network.
But like I said, something changed and yes it was around the time that political discourse took a turn to say the least. And while that may very well be a factor, it doesn't fully explain my overwhelming discomfort with the idea of "putting myself out there" online in any meaningful way.
I've been going to art therapy for awhile and this fear has been something I've been exploring. I've been describing it as a "fear of my own narrative being taken away from me and perverted in front of me without any regard for my own actual truth". That's the best way I can explain it. But that explanation has always felt like it was still missing something.
I think your analogy filled in the rest for me though. It's the omnipresent threat of nonconsensual spectacle. Or perhaps just the fear of that threat. And something inside me just being totally opposed to even entertaining that hypothetical even though logically I know "the onlookers don't matter, their opinions don't matter". Just feels like I'm not wired for this era of online identity. Which sucks since for the majority of my life I've felt the opposite.
Sorry for rambling, I thought I was just going to say thanks and move on haha.
Imagine if you try to practice a skill you're bad at like pottery, but all the windows in your house are open and random people you don't know come right up to them and stare at your work at arbitrary times. Even worse, it's nearly always dark outside so you can never tell when they're looking anymore. But sometimes, at unpredictable times, you can hear a fist knocking or a random phrase uttered at you from outside.
Even if you don't know their faces or reactions, or even if they exist at all, you just can't help but believe they're thinking something of you. And logic dictates that even if they don't happen to think something bad of your skill, their positivity is only transient as they're still strangers to you.
That sensation breeds paranoia, and I realized if I wanted to hone an artistic skill I needed to discard the Internet entirely and fiercely protect my individuality at all costs. My artistic muse is not to be given away for free so that people can point and gawk at it; it is far too valuable. There is only one me in the entire world, and they are irreplaceable.
I believe this is one of the main reasons most artists keep their processes a secret. Baring your entire soul for the world all the time is exhausting. What is released publicly is only a highly refined and focused sliver of such a soul, and the rest is tightly protected from prying eyes.
For me, the Internet was a red herring to being an artistic person. "Chock full of all the world's information," you understand, but also chock full of many other inseparable elements that are too stressful to be worth it. Thankfully realizing this means I can cut down my smartphone usage to 10 minutes a day at most; far too many important things to work on instead.
The most I will ever accept from the Internet is practical advice on how to accomplish certain techniques, but the rest I had no choice but to discard to have any hope at improvement and positive well-being. That includes professional critique online. I used to hang on to the belief I needed people on the Internet to judge me so I could improve, even if they were actual teachers, but I realized I could just as easily get private lessons in the real world. I feel a better connection to human instructors than chat threads. And a lot of art involves the perception of the world as it really is, not a virtual counterpart to it.