It has been so long since I felt this insecurity, I have almost (though not quite) begun to forget what it feels like. From people I’ve spoken to, though, I gather it’s very common, not limited to my own experiences, and I still recall how much it tormented me at the beginning of my artistic journey. I haven’t seen much on it in my voyage over the internet’s choppy waves, so I thought it merited address. You wouldn’t think there would be a stigma about different types of art, but time and time again I’ve stumbled into it. Whether it was my partner implying collage was not ‘real’ art, like drawing, or someone questioning whether I am a ‘real’ artist when they see me collecting found objects, it was a common theme in my early travels. One moment in particular stands out to me, when I think back on this.

I was sitting at the table, paint on my hands and a smile on my face, working on a new piece. It wasn’t one I planned to even show anyone, it was personal to me, and I was so preoccupied with it I didn’t initially notice the person walking up behind me. He was a guest, of my partner, but my partner was nowhere to be found. I don’t know this man well, but I had met him a few times. He noticed I was painting, and he asked what I was doing. I told him I was working on my art, and he took another step closer. That was when he caught sight of my messy heap of stencils, off to one side. They were flat, and well cared for, but tinged with colors that had never quite come clean. Oh, he said then, you’re cheating.

It’s hard to describe how that felt, but if you are an artist who works with mixed media and you’ve ever shown your work to a judgemental acquaintance I’m sure you don’t need to imagine it. It took a long time for me to reconcile this idea, to come to terms with the judgement that apparently faces artists who use seashells on their canvases, who edge portraits in lace, who collage photos of their ancestors into their work. Part of what helped me realize how unproductive this type of self doubt was, was finally noticing the double standard I was using whether comparing others’ art to my own. When my daughter told me that she was self conscious about her newfound interest in collage, because it wasn’t ‘real’ art, I was emphatic that the way she chose to express her feelings was not up for audit. I maintained that it didn’t matter whether she made her art from paper or paint or lyrical verse, what mattered was that it meant something to her, that it said something. If I could believe these things for my daughter, why couldn’t I believe them about myself? It was a question that lingered.