BIZARRERIES

(Text by Canvas Rebel / Brett Grace photographed by Ashley Walters)

CR: Hi Brett, thanks for joining us today. When did you first know you wanted to pursue a creative/artistic path professionally?

BRETT: In my junior year of high school, we had a week of career days. I’ve always been very enthusiastic about music, but the skill it traditionally requires to be a musician just isn’t in my DNA, so when I saw one of the career day lectures was about the music business, I thought maybe forging a career on the business side of music could be a good compromise, so I signed up and went to that lecture. But after school that nearing-summer day, as we were waiting to be picked up, my friend seemed puzzled by my interest in the music business. “But you’re an artist, you’re not a businessman?” he asked, a bit perplexed. I felt so complimented that my friend saw me as an artist, as he was–without question–an artist. He’d often draw in my notebooks, and even his doodles were noteworthy; he could play any song on guitar, and even though we were both in the school play together–he was the lead, and I was “various background characters.” I didn’t then see myself as an artist at all. “You’re a writer,” my friend stated with such confidence that everything came into focus. I had been an editor for the school newspaper, and I’d taken a few creative writing classes but I hadn’t ever properly considered being a writer as a career. It’s funny, too, because I highly doubt this friend would even remember us having this exchange–but for me, this was a moment where I really felt seen. So I crumpled the business card I’d gotten from the music business lecture into my pocket, and declared myself a writer.

It might not be the answer your guidance counselor wants to hear, as pursuing a career in the arts is perceived as risky and impractical. Society will likely roll its eyes at you when you say you’re an artist, but fuck ‘em. I don’t believe in the concept of being an “aspiring artist”–if you express yourself through any creative medium, you’re an artist. And we need artists, we need rebellion against said society. There are, of course, economic realities that might require you to have another job; an additional source of income, but that certainly still doesn’t preclude anyone from being an artist. Nothing does. If you want to be an artist, you’re an artist. People haven’t stopped being poets and philosophers, but the cultural devaluation has made it so that those who formally identify as such are nearly non-existent. I started formally identifying myself as a writer that afternoon of my junior year, but I was a writer before and I’m a writer still. I can’t tell you I haven’t experienced self-doubt, though–I do frequently, but what’s the alternative?

I’m weird–anyone who knows me will tell you the same. And, growing up, I expressed this weirdness through things like how I dressed and colored my hair. But really, it’s only through writing; through this creative expression, that I’ve been able to scratch the surface of understanding myself and the world around me. Writing has become a necessity if ever I want to process my thoughts, and emotions, or articulate my experiences and curiosities. To navigate the pain of loss and heartbreak, or to preserve the memory of a beautiful day. To find a sense of purpose–and I don’t always, but it at least puts me in the realm of where I think I’m supposed to be.

CR: Brett, before we move on to more of these sorts of questions, can you take some time to bring our readers up to speed on you and what you do?

BRETT: I was born in Jackson, Mississippi, and I moved to Los Angeles when I was fifteen. I lived with my sister, Lauren, in Hancock Park and there wasn’t really anyone else around my age in our neighborhood–everyone was either a young parent, like my sister, or they were the respective children of those parents, so I was–as I often am–in between; certainly not an adult, but also not a child. Every day, I’d walk up to Larchmont Village, usually talking on the phone to one of my best friends from Jackson, Anna, and I really think it’s somewhere in that routine–of getting accidental exercise (my favorite kind) every day, in the California sun, while describing my surroundings to Anna–that became a type of anti-depressant for me. And even though the gates of Paramount Pictures were only a few steps away, Larchmont–at that time, anyway–felt like a wholesome oasis, insulated from the dark side of Hollywood. Still though, as is expected in LA, the majority of our neighbors worked in the industry, in one way or another, and its through them–through neighbors I’d baby-sit for; neighbors who became my friends, too, that I was introduced to the myriad of jobs one could have in Hollywood.

I don’t have a lot of skills–people laugh when I say this, but I really don’t. I’m not good at any sport; anything that requires coordination. I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I can’t play any instruments. I can’t paint or draw, I can’t do anything involving mathematics, and I can’t do anything involving mechanics. I’m just now trying to learn about self-care, financial literacy, and how to cook. But I’ve always had really good interpersonal skills. I can talk to anyone. When I was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen–I’d talk to the young parents in my neighborhood the same way I’d talk to the kids at my high school; the same way I’d talk to anyone today.

I hadn’t yet faced having the inevitable imposter syndrome that would come, because it hadn’t yet occurred to me that I didn’t belong. I mean, does anyone belong in LA? Whenever someone doesn’t like me; whenever someone’s trying to drag me, they’ll call me a social-climber, a clout-chaser; something of that sort, but the reality is–I just went to high school in LA, and the majority of my neighbors and classmates had family in the entertainment industry. These were the friends I had to choose from–and some led to lasting friendships, and others didn’t.

That’s not to say I wasn’t curious about Hollywood–it’s a bizarre and fascinating place, but I’d already long been disillusioned by its fantasy aspects since I first started traveling here when I was ten. And in a city full of go-getters and narcissistic psychopaths, I’ve found indifference to be my trade secret. I didn’t play the game, I wasn’t networking at acting classes, I wasn’t trying to sell a screenplay, and I wasn’t trying to get my demo into the right hands. Accepting that it’s all an illusion anyway. I’ve lived in LA for twenty years now, and I still don’t know what a producer actually does!

A neighbor got me my first internship, working for a production company and introducing me to the world of film and TV, music videos, and commercials. And then I got a paying job working for a similar company. And so on. “Go where you are most appreciated” is my mantra, so I try and do just that. I look for opportunities where the skill-set I do have; writing and communication, is of value and appreciated. My entire life story could be told just through the moments where I’ve felt seen; where I’ve sincerely connected with someone, and felt energized by their vision. I love that feeling of electricity, and have such gratitude for every great brainstorming session I’ve ever been a part of.

CR: How about pivoting – can you share the story of a time you’ve had to pivot?

BRETT: I’m frequently having to pivot–as I’ve never really had any sort of grand plan. I’ll plan hours or days ahead, maybe weeks or sometimes months but only if it’s required when coordinating with other people. Society loves to ask us what we’re doing with our lives; what our five or ten year plan is–and, seemingly, people have answers to such questions, but I don’t. I really don’t know what’s coming; what the next scene is, or if there even is a next scene. There is, however, a very fine line between having a plan and having a vision. And I’ve always had visions of a life. But, for me anyway, I’ve found that making any big plans only tends to set you up for disappointment–so, instead, my aim is to just go with the flow; to let life happen to me. Still though, even with this approach, things obviously don’t always work out–but it’s easier to be accepting of having to pivot when you don’t have big expectations to begin with. The best things that have ever happened to me, in any situation, have happened when I’ve approached it like “it would be great if [whatever] happens, but if it doesn’t; if it’s not meant to be, I’ll still be totally fine.” That’s my cheat code; the art of not taking things too seriously, and if things still aren’t working out then I’ll close my eyes and try and reacquaint myself with my vision. Sometimes it’s just a flash; a few seconds of imagining the future perfect. And then, both consciously and subconsciously, I’ll look for signs that’ll get me there. Adjust what I need to adjust. And just try and do the next right thing.

CR: Is there something you think non-creatives will struggle to understand about your journey as a creative?

BRETT: It would seem that society, for the most part, is built by and for people who are very practical, rule-abiding, and sensible. And I’ve often had trouble relating to those people–but it’s all a balancing act, right? We need both creatives and non-creatives. And I’ve had to accept, long ago, that I just don’t think like these overly logical and orderly people; that I’m too caught up in my dreams. Truthfully, I tend to avoid these people; I avoid anyone that I don’t sense I can have a deep, meaningful conversation with. But I also really appreciate efficiency and complex problem-solving. I understand that, in order for society to function properly, we do need logic and sensibility–and that’s not usually where the creatives come in. But there’s a place for both. Creatives bring new perspectives that challenge the status quo and push society forward. We need all kinds of people–but yeah, I’ve certainly felt like a lot of non-creatives don’t really understand things like why, at my age, I still think so child-like… but this is just how I see the world. People grow up fast in LA, and in a lot of ways I caught up with them quickly. I knew kids who had already been to rehab for hard drugs by age thirteen. I knew kids who literally inspired the movie “Thirteen.” I came to realize it’s not that unusual, in a city that produces child actors, for a kid to be able to converse with adults. It seems a lot of those kids become suspended around that age. And even though I was in a regional commercial when I was three, I’m not a child actor–but I often feel similarly stuck. If you could have only the best parts of being an adult, along with the best parts of being a child… wouldn’t you? But what goes up, must come down, and no one wants to find themselves with the worst parts of being an adult, and the worst parts of being a child. More often, creatives are in touch with their inner-child, while non-creatives are less so–but, again, it’s all a balancing act. And I hope to get it somewhat right.