Lee Harper Oswald

Growing up, art was kinda what I did. I partook in other creative mediums like everyone else, and I had my favorites — books, films, music, etc. But what I did was visual. And I did it all the time. I never occurred to me that I should really be doing anything else and whether or not anyone cared about it was superfluous. It didn’t matter; it was just what I did. Until I didn’t anymore.

I have no idea why it’s been so hard for me to return to making art. But, I think part of it is that I’ve been conditioned, over time, both by the world and myself, that it’s not something I should take seriously. In fact, no creative endeavor that I can possibly engage in should ever be taken seriously. “Adulting” will do that to a person, or, at least, it did it to me. As a young adult, I didn’t really have the luxury of falling back on my family for much support financially, which might have been okay had I been even remotely prepared for making it financially in the world on my own. My very early steps were comprised entirely of single chances at anything, so if it didn’t take immediately on the first try, that was it. There was a lot of that. And it’s hard to learn anything when you can’t make any mistakes (or be unavoidably subject to the mistakes of others…lookin’ at you, Mom & Dad…). Without getting into details, there was a moment that sent me spiraling off my chosen and destined path, which was completely out of my hands, and while I did my best to steer it back, it was futile — decades removed, I can see that very clearly.*

I think of that moment in time occasionally and I still can’t figure out how I could have done any better than I did, and I did not do well. I can’t go back and retroactively give myself the knowledge and tools required.

But, since then, it was demonstrated to me repeatedly that one simply can’t take one’s art seriously — it cannot serve you in any way that matters (and survival was what had to matter). In addition to that, I was told — again, repeatedly, by multiple people — that literally no one would care about anything I did. I recall being confronted with the question: What makes you think anyone should care about what you do? As if, how dare I? It wasn’t difficult for me to internalize that because, well, I already had. This was a recurring unspoken question I’d grown up with.

None of this is particularly unique to me, and creative types with worse backgrounds than me went on to take their art seriously and believe that, indeed, people would care…should, even. But I am a contradictory combination of determined/bold and fearful/meek — these qualities waver, combine, and split apart, depending on the context, the time, the day, the weather, the fates…who knows? Not me. And it’s far harder than therapists will tell you it is to fix, even while they tell you how so very hard it will be and how very long it will take.

Reversing these mindsets and patterns of behavior is a herculean task, and no amount or type guidance is sufficient, if you can even find it. So, yeah, it takes decades. It has for me, and I’m still chiseling away at it.

But now I feel like producing art. And I’m still having a very, very difficult time taking it seriously. I expect people will or will not take it seriously, but I myself — right now — just can’t. Even though I know there’s no reason not to. I believe it’s just habit — habit of not taking myself and anything I might produce seriously. Imagine developing such a habit. Who’s got two thumbs and actually does that? (This guy.)

So, I am taking the making of the art seriously, and I’ll just have to wait a bit longer to be able to, naturally, take the content seriously. It’ll be a little while, unless I can find something in what I’m doing to take seriously myself. It’s a process. We’ll see where it goes.

* I know the popular response is to poo-poo this as being sour grapes. Like, my parents “weren’t perfect, but did the best they could.” Like, I’m just blaming my parents for my failures regardless of what they did or didn’t do because it’s easier than “taking responsibility.” My situation is complicated. And the fact is that I did, in fact, take responsibility for their actions for most of my life. I blamed myself entirely. But at some removal of my brain’s immature insistence that my parents would not do anything intentionally to harm me, the actual facts say different. I had to ignore a lot to maintain responsibility. It was less an intentional harm, but more that they simply didn’t care that the actions/decisions that helped them or helped my siblings had dire consequences for me — and this happened over and over. There are reasons too wild to get into here, but, suffice to say, this is not simply blaming someone because shit didn’t turn out the way I’d planned.

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