Opinions are a thorny issue for any creative industry, and so far the only helpful advise I’ve ever gotten about what to do with them is to simply ignore them. Kind of how cats do their owners. Philosophically, it makes a lot of sense, since most opinions are disposable by their own nature, but unfortunately human ears usually have no choice as to what goes in them. Most opinions are unsolicited and when a helpful idiot opens his mouth, chances are you’re going to hear what comes out of it. No matter what you do after that, it’s of little use, the idiots work is done.

It’s probably a gift from God, actually, since having an opinion about something one knows nothing about is the only power that an idiot can appoint to himself. Opinions are power, and nobody knows that more than the opinionated. In the case of clients, opinions often derive their power, not so much from their reams of data and research, but from the brute personality of the opinionated. These are the people whose words seem to have their own mass. The more they talk, the less elbow-room for anyone else. Such a person kills the body and spirit of any conversation. Like a predator, he chomps down on the neck of any idea that isn’t his, holding tight until it stops fighting and accepts the inevitability of death.

This is far less offensive than the opinion whose power is purely psychological, killing an idea not so much by the fall of a dull and heavy axe, but rather by the poisonous prick of a sharp needle. I am, of course, referring to the unsolicited criticism that targets the hallmark ego and insecurity of every artist. Even the most amateur critic knows the difficulty an artist has in ignoring even the most lame and pretentious “feedback”. Especially when the criticism is particularly cutting, most artists have a hard time keeping quiet, even when they know that any response at all gives more power to the opinion. Rumors, by the way, have this same power.

Usually when someone volunteers their opinion to me, I feel as if I’ve just been handed a big bag of lemons. With lemons you make lemonade. Even anecdotally we’re told to take the lemons that life hands us and add our own sugar. With opinions, we can try making opinionade, mixing in sugar to temper the acidic and acerbic, but somehow doing so feels like selling myself snake-oil. In the end, there's just not much I can do with someone else's bullshit.

Along with disease, war and television, I’ve learned to accept that opinions are just a fact of life. Sometimes I surprise myself when crapola goes in one ear and actually out the other. All too often it goes in and sticks. But lately, my need to travel light has allowed me to ditch the baggage others have piled on. This isn’t from any creative maturity, though I wish it were. It’s simply because deep down I know that everyone is entitled to their opinion. And deeper still is my entitlement to simply not give a shit.