Criticism

“The criticism that damages an artist is the criticism — well intentioned or ill — that contains no saving kernel of truth yet has a certain damning plausibility or an unassailable blanket judgment that cannot be rationally refuted.” — Julia Cameron, Artist’s Way

I grew up with criticism – well intentioned – from my mother. Nothing was ever good enough, no matter how much I did. My brother was the star, the funny one, the favorite child; my sister, the mess, the one with all the problems. Me? I got ignored, most of the time, or criticized for not being better at being the “good” child. The four As and a B tape, the expectations of perfection, being 12 years old and taking care of the house and doing the cooking while my mom was in the hospital, while my older brother and sister did nothing, and then having my dad re-iron his shirts because they weren’t perfect enough (I still to this day refuse to iron anything).

My dad was really pretty good though about praising me and encouraging me, which is probably why I took after him and became an engineer. But I actually started college as a music theatre major. And quickly learned that, no matter what I did, I wasn’t going to get the big roles, since it was all political, and I wasn’t good enough to be a “star”, which was probably true of most everyone in the program, and they were all getting teaching degrees as backup. I knew I didn’t want to teach, and I knew I wasn’t going to be a star, even if my voice coach did keep telling me I was good enough to try out for the San Francisco Opera.

The reality was I simply didn’t want to play that game. Little did I know. I thought engineering would be all rational, without the politics. Hah. As anyone who has been around long enough can tell you, where there are people, there are politics. I was laid off from jobs so the “guys who had families to support” wouldn’t be. I was propositioned, sexually harassed, saw choice assignments go to those who sucked up, and learned that there was no place in this working world for a working mother with two young kids. The day I got screamed at for coming in late, by my boss who came in after I did, was the day I quit. I had spent most of the morning to that point trying to arrange daycare for two sick kids and get myself to work, only to be confronted with that nonsense. I went straight to HR and turned in my resignation letter. I went back to school, got my MBA and became a consultant, where I could work on my terms.

I’ve lost three good friends for making “unforgivable” mistakes in dealing with them, friends I loved and cared for deeply and knew for over a dozen years each, who never spoke to me again. I’ve been told by an art therapist that I was “too disruptive” for her groups so she didn’t want me to participate anymore. No matter that I was dealing with undiagnosed bipolar disorder during that period of my life, and have gotten the proper medication so it is under control since then. No matter that I was dealing with the death of my father, and the stress of the lost friendships. That wasn’t her territory, after all, she was all about dealing with body image.

I was even told in a bipolar group therapy session that I was too “normal” to be in the group! Guess my problems weren’t severe enough to be interesting to the other group members, who were having too much fun bemoaning how terrible things were instead of trying to get better.

So anyway, I’ve had my share of criticism. And it bit, deep, hard, all the way to my core, and finally, eventually, rearranged who I was as a person. And, just like the proverbial hero’s journey, who I became was — myself. The same person I had been all along, only now I knew what the problems were, where the mistakes were, and how badly I had dealt with things.

And I really liked that person. A lot. I still do. The veneer has all peeled off, the hard edges are gone, my “real” self is no longer buried or hidden. I am a child playing in the world, and having a grand time. Do I display this face all the time? No, of course not. But now, I know when I’m wearing the mask, and I know what I really think underneath. Usually my hardest job is hiding the hysterical laughter I want to express when other people get angry at me or upset – as if they could hurt me anymore! I just smile and quietly go on my way. Am I still open to criticism? Sure – but now, I can take it or leave it, and know when it is valid and when it is for spite, or for show, or hypocritical, or just plain mean. And it isn’t personal anymore. Partly because there is no personal for me anymore – I am as much about the other person as they are about me, as I am about my garden, the sky, the earth. We’re all the same, and people who don’t get that, who are caught up in their own little egos, are trapped in a small, small world.

Actually, I tend to feel sorry for them. And I get annoyed with myself when I feel ego creep up, when I feel myself getting annoyed with things I know don’t have to bother me. And annoyed when I am critical to others, since I know it hurts, and that old pattern of sarcasm can flair up at some really bad times. I know it’s a defense, a front for my own insecurities. And yes, those insecurities do linger, out of habit as much as anything else. I’m uncomfortable still in groups, especially groups of women.

Which is what brings me to Artist’s Way, to continuing my searching, to art journaling. Trying to rid myself of my remaining insecurities. Most of those deal with friendships, with trusting other people enough to let them get close. I’m afraid of being hurt again, of course. Afraid of loving and losing again. And I know I have to get beyond that.

I know most people probably get the idea I don’t care much about them. But the truth is, I care too much, too deeply about them. I see more than people want me to see, and if I’m not careful, I tell them more about themselves than they want to know. I can see all the beauty of the oceans, the lakes, the rivers, the streams, the ponds and mud puddles of people’s souls and spirits. But I want to explore the depths, and to most people, that is very scary indeed.

But, in art, I could express those things. And even in those mud puddles, there are beautiful sapphires hidden.

UPDATE:

Well, the Internet is a strange and wondrous thing. I started looking around for a yoga and pilates retreat, thinking it might be fun, and ended up signing up for – a VOICE LESSON!!! How weird is that? Well, Julia did say to do what we can to take some small step towards our dreams, huh?

I’m still freaked out.