From an early age I was obsessed with my death. It was an innocent curiosity caused by learning what death was. At that age it meant a person going missing and never being found. Like the way Rebecca Sugar talks about a teddy bear left in a garden. That was my understanding of death.
By 17 however it became an alluring solution to my problems. It rebranded itself as introversion. A dislike towards interacting with others. I wanted to exist outside of time and the spaces I was in. A particular imagery in my head was of me living on a foggy undiscovered mountain. To which I wore all white, and the walls of my home were the same shade of white. I never left and the inside was made up of long hallways that became makeshift rooms. There was no color here beside the lone window in the dining/studio room where I ate and painted. That was the existence I craved very badly at 17.
Prior to that it was about getting lost, walking out of my house and never finding my way back home. I had written a poem called “Take me to Newfoundland PeterPan” in which I plead to be taken away to a new place where no one knew me. A place that I had no connection to and could easily leave at any time. Even in highschool death to me was still about being lost, with no way to be found. It would take a few years before I came to a new understanding of death.
Despite all these feelings of wanting to run away and dying. There was one thought that stopped me. Would anyone really care? Perhaps people would notice I was gone but what impact did I make in the lives of people around me to care decades later? To think of me when wherever summer arrived, or when a song from the 1975 played or when they saw the color pink. Was I important enough to make someone hate the anime Sailor Moon or berets? Furthermore when I asked myself the same question, “had I done anything worth remembering?” fear took over. If I died now, it would be before I ever impacted the world, before truly experiencing life. I was more afraid of dying and having no one to remember me, than I was of living. As such I stayed alive during the hardest period of my life, determined to make something of myself. Though it may seem like a grand goal it was rather simple. I told myself if I could inspire even one person that I could die happy.
Well that happened rather quickly. By 19 I had several people message me and let me know that I inspired them to take up art or start a business of their own. It shocked me every time, nothing I did to me was worth being inspired by. I was still unsatisfied with my art practice and how my personal life was going , yet every few months I would get a message from someone telling me I inspired them. It made no sense, I barely had a following of 100 on instagram and twitter, no real friends and I was still having fights with my family. I was a mess with no way to fix anything, yet here were these people telling me I was an inspiration. Having achieved that goal early I was left with emptiness. If at my lowest point I had inspired someone, what was left for me?
I kept creating, kept attempting to get my life back on track, but there was no real reason behind it. It was something to do while I waited to die. I could not imagine life after 17 and definitely could not see myself making it into my twenties but I had no desire to end my own life. Instead I waited, certain that an accident would happen or my health would worsen. Sure that the world would get rid of me. At a certain point after I turned 20 I realized I was still alive. I had not died and I was pretty proud of what I had achieved artistically. In some ways I was flourishing. Still lonely but I could look at myself in the mirror and see I was becoming someone my younger self always wanted to be.
However life is a cruel mistress with a sick sense of humor. It took years for me to feel proud of myself and almost overnight that feeling went away. I became obsessed with my art, it was the only successful thing in my life and I wanted it to continue to grow. To elevate me to new heights. I desperately wanted it to be the remedy to my problems. The hype around my art had died and I was unsure what direction to go in. I was experiencing burnout far worse than others. I was tired of putting my faith into art, laying myself bare to receive “scraps.” I could not see how I could be successful in this field and I was tired of trying. During this period I began taking in the little things, I enjoyed buying flowers for myself, digging my boots into the snow, the clouds on blue sky days, and even running errands. Living normally without being fixated on art filled me with warmth. It came to me then that perhaps this was the extent of my love for art. I no longer loved it enough to hold on and believe that things will get better, that I could be successful.
As I said, life has a sick sense of humor. Though I decided to give up on art, I still had an Art degree to finish and I had decided to enter my school’s annual art show. When march came along and the show took place, despite choosing to give up on art, there was one prize I wanted to win. The conceptual artist prize, given to the student who showed the most artistic promise. I still wanted to know even if I had decided to give up, I wanted the validation of knowing I was the best. Plus the award came with $500. The award ceremony took place and I had won. Not the conceptual prize but two other awards, one that was even better than the conceptual award. What was really amazing was that I won two awards. It was uncommon and I was the only one that year to do so.
Then a few weeks later another student art competition I had applied to months ago, emailed me and told me I had won. In one month things had turned around for me, I was interviewed, given studio space, meeting with professional artists that were interested in my work and also received money. This was the type of thing you saw in movies and could only dream of happening. Yet it was my reality, but the excitement did not last. Instead I felt exhausted. Life is cruel and long and exhausting. Right when I was ready to quit that was when my art career skyrocketed to the big leagues. At the same time I was leaving for a four and half month long trip. I would leave right when I needed to stay and secure this new change. Though I briefly considered staying, I did leave for my trip. As I said I was exhausted but also scared.
If you read my note “What is God’s Gender?” I briefly mentioned working on a solo show to showcase what I had learned during my years in university. Now a part of me believes I was working on this show to convince myself I was not running away. That I did still care for art in the same ways I once did. In a way I do, art is still like breathing to me. Creating is in my blood and I have always found one way or another to make things. Now I do not depend on art, it is not my reason to be alive. To not create would crush me but I can still breathe without it. I cannot say I have found a healthy balance but I am in a better headspace.
The issue is I have no motivation, once again. I have skipped out on applying to shows, going to artist panels and events. Even right now I am writing this instead of working on a grant proposal due in three days. I am creating simply to keep up appearances and it seems to be working. I think my recent projects are wonderful and are well received. I still get told often how talented I am. Things are great on the surface. I am the only one who feels this is wrong, who feels that I will eventually fade away. That before I can reach the extent of my artistic abilities I will disappear. All the same I hope that what I have created will live on in people’s lightest memories.