When I was in junior high school, I wanted to be an architect. I am not sure why except that the architects on television seemed happy and comparatively rich. Plus, they didn't seem to do anything resembling work, which struck me as a major plus.

They drew. And they got paid a lot of money to draw.

Then I found out that architects had to know a lot of math. Well, knowing math had already become "work" to me by then so I wasn't as interested as I had been.

Then journalism came along. How had I missed it before? Apparently there were no journalists in sitcoms. (I am sure there were; I just don't remember any.)

Somehow I became convinced that as a reporter, I could right wrongs and be something of a real-life superhero by doing so. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

When I got to high school, I worked on the school paper. When that was discontinued, we created our own "underground" newspaper for our senior year.

I majored in journalism in college and got an Associate's degree in the subject. Then I went to the University of Georgia. Holy crap! I walked into a room of about 200 people and was told that in any given year, there were likely to be 2 new journalism jobs in the state. Really? WTF? Shouldn't there have been a UGA career counselor at the door to the Journalism Department, blocking the entrance?!?

So. I am no journalist. Still, what I learned in that field helped me to be the person that I am today.

One of the things we learned about was how media had shifted from broadcasting to narrowcasting. This was around 1979, so the shift was coming about through cable television. We were going from having three networks that sought to capture a significant percentage of the viewing populace to cable providers of programming who were able to get by with a much smaller audience.

Ah, those were the days.

Thirty-plus years later and we have the internet that makes it possible for there to be thousands of providers of programming - or "content," as it is called now.

If we consider the programming to be a creative endeavor, we were selling our art to the masses. With narrowcasting, we sell out art to a smaller and smaller sliver of "the masses."

We have less of a cultural identity as a result, but that's not what I'm writing about here.

My point of view is from the person who creates the "art." If the artist seeks an audience, he is likely to be disappointed. Though the access is easier, the competition is so greatly increased as to diminish the end result.

Does the artist care? He shouldn't. Creating should be an end unto itself.

Does the artist care? He does. Without an audience, he might as well be the tree falling in the forest where there is no one to hear it make a sound.

And so.

We have moved from broadcasting to narrowcasting and - I believe - to uncasting: to art that no longer seeks an audience but merely exists as an unwanted product from the artist, who probably ought to have studied math harder so that he could have become an architect.