“Take that, Johnny!”
“I have imposter syndrome”—one of Mum’s go-tos when she’s seeking validation for her art.
Mum has always heavily romanticised what it means to be an artist, to the point where the art itself is secondary. She has always wanted to be an artist—in her own words, “a real artist.” And there’s a lot to unpack in there.
There’s a usual cliches and tropes—the struggling artist, the eccentric artist, the free-spirited artist, the artist who doesn’t give a shit about what people think of them, and the who artist who lives through a irrepressible outpouring a emotion.
Of course, she is none of these things—aside from a deep fragility and insecurity perhaps.
The second part of what it means to be “a real artist” is the fame, accolades and adulation. I remember seeing the words “famous artist” pinned to her dresser, alongside an assortment of affirmations and mantras. Now this is the part of her journey as an artist—the fame—she’s always had some level of control over. For years, Mum’s been able to leverage her money and connections in the art world to get her work out there.
So it’s not about the art. And like many things in Mum’s life, it’s about the performance. She’s built herself a large studio (a stage set of sorts) for her to play the role of a painter.
Mum’s latest work was not accepted into a big regional exhibition, whereas, an artist—a man who mum has always spoken piteously and patronisingly of—had his work included. This was completely unexpected, and while Mum feigned excitement for this artist, there was an undertone of resentment and pity. She leaned a little too eagerly into the excitement.
Let’s call the artist Johnny.
A couple of days ago, I wandered into Mum’s studio, her small body a silhouette to a big blank canvas.
“You know I’ve been thinking about painting something in similar style to Johnny’s work. And I thought I might enter it in the regional art awards”
In those benign words there was a noticeably vicious intent.
She might like to call this work “Take that, Johnny!”