I have been haunted by the specter of “success.” It kept me up at night shivering and crying in the past, and it still holds me in doubt now.
Half of my experience at AAU was governed by my mother’s cancer. And half of the work I made was in turn influenced by her. And nearly all of the work I made since graduating was to and for her.
My mother and I were disgusted by the typical cancer narratives. Triumphant bodies successful in beating cancer. Grateful bodies embracing the lessons that cancer had taught them. There were less stories of those with stage four. And even less that showcased the more unsavory effects of cancer and its treatment. And even less with cancer patients who were fat, and because of which deemed that they couldn’t be dying. Aren’t you eating a bit too much?
My mother and her body existed in limbo. Too fat to be dying, and too ungrateful of the “cancer journey” to be acknowledged. She had done all the necessary scans, taken every imaginable health precaution, and yet still deserved blame for her own circumstance. While I wish I had been there for her more, I am grateful that I was able to create that series to validate her experiences.
And while I did exhibit pieces of the series here and there, it never reached anything of real merit. My portfolio wasn’t bought by the SFMOMA when I presented it to its reviewers. In fact, many reviewers discredited the work (my words, the fact that I added “unnecessary” text to my prints) to my face. If it wasn’t for my last two reviewers, I would have walked away from the experience in shambles and in hysterics. I still resent much of it.
The question of self-pity. I know there’s value in the work. And I also know that value is subjective. But can’t my mother deserve better? Doesn’t my mother deserve better? So that her suffering wasn’t in vain and in silence?
Does this mean that I’ve failed to honor her? Does this mean that I’ve failed her?
The question of self-pity. The question of success.
My mother has died – can you blame me if my work is dedicated to that? Can you blame me if grief has influenced every moment of my life since she has passed? “But who can help mourning?” I can’t help but grieve. Once you’ve known grief, it grabs hold of you and your work.
“People in grief think a great deal about self-pity. ... We fear that our actions will reveal the condition tellingly described as ‘dwelling on it.’” Would I be more “successful” if my bodies of work weren’t “dwelling on it?” Would I be successful if I wasn’t governed by grief? Infected by grief? Is grief not a good enough subject, or is it just my grief that’s unsuccessful?
So what then makes grief “unsuccessful?” Does grief need to be desirable to be consumed? Can grief be “consumed?” And must it be, in that mass-marketed way? Can’t grief just be relatable? Can’t grief just be experienced? Can’t my grief and my words and my images be enough? Enough for “success?” Enough for you?
The question of self-worth. I know the quality of my work – or at least I know the quality of my pain. As Didion says, there is a difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is. I know how consuming it can be and still is. My work is authentic – perhaps painfully so.
If there is a space for established people to grieve – the Didions and their Magical Thinkings, the Barthes and their Mourning Diaries, the celebrities interviewed with a tender hand placed just so on top of theirs – then is there a place for grief when it disables those who are unknown? Those who are effectively no one?
Must my grief go unnoticed? Is my grief worth “less” than theirs? I know that grief cannot be compared in its pain, but in order to be “consumed” must we place hierarchies upon grief? Is grieving a mother worth more or less than grieving a child? Or a spouse? Is it worth less if the loss is just a childhood friend? Or a passing friend? Is your grief worth more the more that you’ve lost? Is it the quality? Is it the quantity? Is this a low?
I haven’t made a dime on the dying breath of my mother. But if her death is the subject and I haven’t sold it, does that mean I’ve “failed” as an artist? As a writer? If I can’t help but grieve, and if grief is now my primary medium, have I now destined myself to fail under capitalism?
Why do I have to commodify my grief in order to succeed in making a living as an artist? There is no ethical consumption under capitalism, but what about creation? Is it ethical to cope, but still make a profit?
… Am I using my mother?
Bitterness. I will admit that I am bitter of the successes others have received and I have yet to. I am impatient and I expect more of myself. Some have even called me arrogant. But I know my worth and the value of my work. If that makes me arrogant, then so be it.
Like cancer for my mother, grief has not turned me into a better person. I am not grateful for my grief. Like Didion, I cannot find the positives in this. There are no silver linings to grief – only emptiness. “I look for resolution and find none.”
I sobbed myself raw the first week. And acute attacks would sneak up on me when I least expected them.
I equally withdrew in my grief and became alienated because of it. I resented the support my father received from his friends, and the silence I faced in comparison. The question of self-pity. I knew that I deserved better. I told my therapist so. I felt betrayed and bitter and alone. And those feelings have remained, alongside the grief.
Grieving my mother is forever painfully present and in the present, but mourning is different. I have never “dealt” with my grief, so I have never “mourned” – according to Didion. But perhaps I have successfully mourned the self I once was before my mother died. That Mica was left behind in the hospital with my mother. I’m whatever was left behind.
And whatever was left behind is even more bitter than the Mica who came before.
For better and worse, this grief is my primary subject. For better and worse, this is what governs my life. I am forever now a motherless child.
I know my work, and I know my grief. I know my worth, and I know worth is subjective. I know that there is value in my words, steeped in grief. And I know the words my mother was privy to validated and honored her. And that’s more than enough for me in my soul.
But what about for “success?”
I fear my grief will never amount to “success.” I fear my grieving self will never be “successful.” I fear experiencing another disenchantment from another medium. I fear another example in which I’ve failed.
“It’s fruitless for me to mourn you / But who can help mourning?”