Who cares?
This morning I was thinking a lot about my successes, and how I tend not to give credit to myself when credit is due. In graduate school, a talented adjunct professor in watercolor called out my entire class on our melancholy disposition, and asked us why we couldn't rejoice in our achievements? Sadly, our society has implemented a "journey is not as important as result" clause on achievements, especially artistic ones. And artistic endeavors are so closely tied to emotion that it is not hard to see the detriment in holding this position.
I've been thinking a lot about where I've come from, and most particularly trying to figure out how I came from Charlotte, NC from a highschool with almost no support for the arts, to working as a professional artist first in DC, then NYC and now across the country in Portland. Aside from my family and closest friends, there haven't been a lot of people to congratulate me or tell me that they're particularly proud of what I've done. Okay. Strike that. A lot of people have said they're proud of me, but I think I've always just wanted the approval of my professors and professionals in my field. I think that maybe I tell myself, if only my teacher ______ said "Wow, I'm really proud of you!" then maybe I would stop feeling this crippling sense of insecurity and imposter syndrome.
But we all know that's simply not true.
What is true, is that no matter what I do, I'm always going to lament how I could've done it better, and continue to feel like a fraud. It doesn't matter if I get that fellowship, or that dream job, or if I pay off my debt eventually. I'm firstly going to think about how I probably "cheated" at this somehow, or how someone else probably is still suffering or probably deserves this more than me, or feel bad for someone else who is not doing well.
When I though about this this morning, I started to think about the story of the summer of 2008.
In 2008, I had only been in graduate school for set design for one year. I had previously finished a four year degree where I had mainly immersed myself in musical theatre performance, and I had decided to make a huge leap in going straight from graduating, to starting graduate school in set design. I was a mess. I constantly felt overwhelmed about how I had "snuck" into graduate school, how I wasn't supposed to be there. It didn't help that I quickly learned that the undergraduates at my school thought all of the graduate students were frauds too, as the vetting process was much more difficult for the B.F.A. students than the M.F.A. students. It didn't help that nary a graduate student had even finished in recent memory, so everyone's expectations of me were very low from the get-go.
I didn't really have enough money to be going there. The previous summer, I had turned down my favorite summer stock job to go work at a theme park and make 5k being a barker so I would have spending money during school. My wealthy friends at the old job did not understand and thought I had abandoned them. I didn't have the heart to try to explain my finances to them.
Take into account that my musical theatre friends couldn't understand why I had decided to go to this "snooty" graduate school that had a nebulous reputation amongst other arts professionals. I ignored them, tried to keep my nose to the grindstone, and probably cried only every other day.
My professors seemed flummoxed at my lack of experience in certain disciplines, and perplexed by my immediate feelings of being simply overwhelmed. After the tenuous first year, they suggested I take on a rigorous summer training program in order to really get my feet wet (and possibly not get kicked out the next year, which I was gravely concerned about).
So when I was offered a summer experience with a strenuous reputation in upstate New York, I jumped at the chance. I quickly discovered that I was going to have to paddle as fast as I could in order to keep up with all of the other directors and designers in this program. I started out okay in the beginning, but when I started to have two and three shows piling up on each other (you designed six shows in eight weeks), I started to crack at the seams. Directors were unhappy with me, I couldn't work fast enough, the shows we were doing were unbearably complicated (one was 200 pages long and had just been translated by the director from French), and I believed that the only thing I could do was push myself as hard and fast as I could to succeed. I stopped regularly eating or drinking enough water. I wasn't sleeping enough. I was constantly on edge. And then I put myself in the hospital.
A kidney infection is very painful and will put you on your back.
But the immediate response I received from my director upon recovery was something the long the lines of "that was inconvenient." And then I was chastised for having forgotten something we had talked about previously. He apologized, but the realization that it didn't matter how hard I worked stung. I didn't really recover that summer. Either the stress or the situation made everyone mad at me, and I remember literally painting a floor by myself while my director watched, being the last one to clean out a brush while everyone else grumbled at me for being slow, then getting yelled at by the resident painter the next day for not cleaning out the brush well enough. People left me to finish jobs, made fun of me, left me behind. The cherry on top was that a director stole a piece of art from me after promising to pay me for it. I sent her blank checks with return envelopes. She never replied.
And of course I blamed myself. The biggest feedback I got from a supervisor that summer? Learn how to handle my stress, or I wouldn't work in the industry. I took that as a threat, not a piece of advise. And I've tried to handle my stress. I returned to graduate school to the knowledge that I was given not one, but two huge shows that year. One was the winter opera. I had to go from 0 to 60 to keep up. I did it. I succeeded. I finished my thesis the following year.
My thesis talk-back was five minutes long, and everyone was anxious to get to lunch.
I've, of course, continued to work in the industry. I've even succeeded at some things. I've also made a mess and felt completely overwhelmed and then been picked on for being an emotional woman a lot of the time.
And whose approval am I looking for now?
Not theirs.
Not yours.
I don't give a fuck, because I know I have actually paid my damn dues.
But when will I give myself permission to feel successful? I'm not sure. I do know that the past has taught me that it's never going to be enough for other people. The past has taught me that I fade into the background around my mentors, and that I've been far from the favorite. But isn't the past something one is meant to overcome?
My opinion is that I've already succeeded, but it isn't enough for society. The debt around my neck speaks volumes in that case.
My opinion is that maybe people don't say when they're proud all of the time.
My opinion is that I've come a long way, but I still want to go so much further.
My opinion matters a whole lot more than yours.
I've been thinking a lot about where I've come from, and most particularly trying to figure out how I came from Charlotte, NC from a highschool with almost no support for the arts, to working as a professional artist first in DC, then NYC and now across the country in Portland. Aside from my family and closest friends, there haven't been a lot of people to congratulate me or tell me that they're particularly proud of what I've done. Okay. Strike that. A lot of people have said they're proud of me, but I think I've always just wanted the approval of my professors and professionals in my field. I think that maybe I tell myself, if only my teacher ______ said "Wow, I'm really proud of you!" then maybe I would stop feeling this crippling sense of insecurity and imposter syndrome.
But we all know that's simply not true.
What is true, is that no matter what I do, I'm always going to lament how I could've done it better, and continue to feel like a fraud. It doesn't matter if I get that fellowship, or that dream job, or if I pay off my debt eventually. I'm firstly going to think about how I probably "cheated" at this somehow, or how someone else probably is still suffering or probably deserves this more than me, or feel bad for someone else who is not doing well.
When I though about this this morning, I started to think about the story of the summer of 2008.
In 2008, I had only been in graduate school for set design for one year. I had previously finished a four year degree where I had mainly immersed myself in musical theatre performance, and I had decided to make a huge leap in going straight from graduating, to starting graduate school in set design. I was a mess. I constantly felt overwhelmed about how I had "snuck" into graduate school, how I wasn't supposed to be there. It didn't help that I quickly learned that the undergraduates at my school thought all of the graduate students were frauds too, as the vetting process was much more difficult for the B.F.A. students than the M.F.A. students. It didn't help that nary a graduate student had even finished in recent memory, so everyone's expectations of me were very low from the get-go.
I didn't really have enough money to be going there. The previous summer, I had turned down my favorite summer stock job to go work at a theme park and make 5k being a barker so I would have spending money during school. My wealthy friends at the old job did not understand and thought I had abandoned them. I didn't have the heart to try to explain my finances to them.
Take into account that my musical theatre friends couldn't understand why I had decided to go to this "snooty" graduate school that had a nebulous reputation amongst other arts professionals. I ignored them, tried to keep my nose to the grindstone, and probably cried only every other day.
My professors seemed flummoxed at my lack of experience in certain disciplines, and perplexed by my immediate feelings of being simply overwhelmed. After the tenuous first year, they suggested I take on a rigorous summer training program in order to really get my feet wet (and possibly not get kicked out the next year, which I was gravely concerned about).
So when I was offered a summer experience with a strenuous reputation in upstate New York, I jumped at the chance. I quickly discovered that I was going to have to paddle as fast as I could in order to keep up with all of the other directors and designers in this program. I started out okay in the beginning, but when I started to have two and three shows piling up on each other (you designed six shows in eight weeks), I started to crack at the seams. Directors were unhappy with me, I couldn't work fast enough, the shows we were doing were unbearably complicated (one was 200 pages long and had just been translated by the director from French), and I believed that the only thing I could do was push myself as hard and fast as I could to succeed. I stopped regularly eating or drinking enough water. I wasn't sleeping enough. I was constantly on edge. And then I put myself in the hospital.
A kidney infection is very painful and will put you on your back.
But the immediate response I received from my director upon recovery was something the long the lines of "that was inconvenient." And then I was chastised for having forgotten something we had talked about previously. He apologized, but the realization that it didn't matter how hard I worked stung. I didn't really recover that summer. Either the stress or the situation made everyone mad at me, and I remember literally painting a floor by myself while my director watched, being the last one to clean out a brush while everyone else grumbled at me for being slow, then getting yelled at by the resident painter the next day for not cleaning out the brush well enough. People left me to finish jobs, made fun of me, left me behind. The cherry on top was that a director stole a piece of art from me after promising to pay me for it. I sent her blank checks with return envelopes. She never replied.
And of course I blamed myself. The biggest feedback I got from a supervisor that summer? Learn how to handle my stress, or I wouldn't work in the industry. I took that as a threat, not a piece of advise. And I've tried to handle my stress. I returned to graduate school to the knowledge that I was given not one, but two huge shows that year. One was the winter opera. I had to go from 0 to 60 to keep up. I did it. I succeeded. I finished my thesis the following year.
My thesis talk-back was five minutes long, and everyone was anxious to get to lunch.
I've, of course, continued to work in the industry. I've even succeeded at some things. I've also made a mess and felt completely overwhelmed and then been picked on for being an emotional woman a lot of the time.
And whose approval am I looking for now?
Not theirs.
Not yours.
I don't give a fuck, because I know I have actually paid my damn dues.
But when will I give myself permission to feel successful? I'm not sure. I do know that the past has taught me that it's never going to be enough for other people. The past has taught me that I fade into the background around my mentors, and that I've been far from the favorite. But isn't the past something one is meant to overcome?
My opinion is that I've already succeeded, but it isn't enough for society. The debt around my neck speaks volumes in that case.
My opinion is that maybe people don't say when they're proud all of the time.
My opinion is that I've come a long way, but I still want to go so much further.
My opinion matters a whole lot more than yours.
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