I forget where I first heard this, but before Jack White became a big-time musician he worked as a furniture upholsterer, and he would hide copies of his music in the chairs he refurbished. His hope was that that someone might stumble upon his art in the future. Is releasing music in this way goofy and maybe even a bit too whimsical for your taste? Sure. I get that. But all the same this story has always spoken to me.

I think it’s because all sharing of art — even when done through much more traditional channels — involves sending it out into the unknown. When you release an album you may send it directly to family and friends, but you also make it available to strangers. I’ve realized that I find this indirect relationship with strangers, and with the unknown, important for some reason. The idea that you never quite know where it will end up. Maybe it’ll reach the ears of someone on the other side of the planet. Maybe right now your song is rearranging the mental furniture of someone in New Zealand.

I guess I’m fascinated by the idea that the things we create go on to lead their own lives, quite independently of ourselves. Hiding an album in a chair is cool because it seems to understand something about the way the world already is — unpredictable, chaotic, full of fortune and misfortune.

I suppose acts like these also speak to me because they counterbalance our modern desire for measurable, transactional forms of success. It is hard to quantify what impact they have on the world at large, and I actually find that to be more of a strength than a weakness. Something about choosing not to know feels thrilling and healthy. Something about the lack of market-based metrics and stream counts feels like sticking it to the man.

Sharing art in an unusual way also creates surprise, which is hard to come by these days. For most of us, adult life is a routine life. We have a pretty strong idea about what any given Tuesday will bring. I like the idea of my art momentarily de-calcifying someone's life. I like the idea of art being a thing that makes strangers stub their toes on a wider, wilder version of reality.

So yeah. What if the next time you share your art, you engage with the unknown a bit more deliberately? How might you release an album that creates more surprise? How might you make its reception harder to measure or track? What if instead of transparency you thought more about obscuration?

I’m not saying that we all have to start hiding our albums in sofas. In an effort at balance, one must remember that the overwhelming majority of messages in a bottle are lost forever to the sea. And also, in case it sounds like I’m suggesting otherwise: there's nothing wrong with desiring and pursuing public and critical reception. We can set measurable and knowable goals for our art, and make honest efforts to achieve these goals. I find no fault with the novelist who diligently works towards a traditional publishing deal, or the musician that builds an audience in a simple, straightforward way.

What I’m trying to say, though, is that even the most straightforward or conventional sharing of art will contain some aspect of the unknown. You can try to plant the seeds well — in the right place, at the right time, etc. But it's wise (and comforting) to remember that their blossoming will also depend on the wider, wilder world. The sun, the rain, and the flapping of a butterfly's wings will all have their say.

Something to chew on. Shout out to Lewis Hyde and Rebecca Solnit, whose fingerprints are all over this one. For related thoughts check out The Gift and Hope in the Dark. Hope you're all swell. Don't forget that it's always too soon to tell.