When Survival Becomes Ritual: An Artist’s Way Reflection on Chapter Eight
My mother was a photographer in the army. Not everyone can say that, and I don’t take it lightly. I remember her pulling out her mini studio in our home, posing me with care, treating ordinary moments like memory in the making. Later, she became a homemaker — but never stopped creating. She painted murals on walls and closets she eventually sold. She propagated plants like they were spiritual offerings. She didn’t make a profit, not really. But she made art out of her life.
What confused me most was the contradiction: she told me and my sisters to be independent, discouraged the domestic path she herself lived — but infused that domesticity with creativity and warmth. She encouraged me to draw, to paint, to photograph — and then asked, “How can you make money with this?” That question became the rhythm underneath my childhood art-making. I remember drawing bunnies on postcards in second grade. My mom loved them so much she suggested we sell them in sets of four. Before the internet was even a thing, we sold them in-person — and they went. Effortlessly. That might sound empowering. And maybe it was. But it also planted a seed: If you’re not monetizing your art, what are you doing? Even now, I’ll sit down to create and suddenly think: Will this make money? And that’s where my hands stall.
Survival Isn’t Always About Silence
When I read the Survival section of Chapter Eight, I didn’t connect with the idea of surviving unacknowledged art. My struggle isn’t being ignored — it’s finding a rhythm in my life where art fits. I earned a degree in photography, but I live in a society that doesn’t really celebrate or need photographers. My professor — someone I admired deeply and who is globally renowned — told me I’d need a master’s degree to be taken seriously. But financially, that door wasn’t open. So I stopped at an associate’s and wondered if that meant my creativity would never be respected.
Now, I’ve carved out something different. My rhythm is slower, more intentional. I make videos with public domain text overlays. I sketch with spirit and inquiry. I don’t care if it sells. That’s survival — not in silence, but in refusal to contort my practice to match someone else’s rubric.
Dismantling Ivory Power
When Cameron called out the “Ivory Power” — the false hierarchy of creative legitimacy — I nodded hard. That professor’s well-meant advice echoed a larger system: one where credentials and prestige determine whether your art is real enough. But I’ve done meaningful work without the stamps. I’ve facilitated workshops. I’ve held space for artists, writers, and seekers — without needing a degree on the wall. What I’ve learned is that legitimacy comes from process, intention, and presence. Not paperwork.
Gain Disguised as Loss
There are choices that used to feel like closed doors. Not continuing formal education. Leaving certain artistic circles. And yet — I’ve gained a rhythm, a voice, a way of creating that doesn’t ask permission. I love learning. I love thoughtful environments. But I’ve also seen how certain institutions can be out of touch. I’ve found more growth getting my hands dirty, connecting with people, and building something that could be real — even if it’s not recognized. Now, when the resources are there, I know I can make things happen. And when they’re not? I still create.
Age and Time Walk Beside Me
I’m 42. People never believe it — and I love that. But it’s not just about how I look. It’s about how I live. I feel vibrant, curious, present. I’ve turned my home into a creativity hub. Just like my mom did, I fill the space with energy. I bake because I want to. Not because I need bread, but because the process speaks to something in me. I sketch slowly. I pair public domain texts with imagery that asks questions. And every week, I’m at the library — keeping up with forestry, sciences, photography, and whatever catches my wonder. Time doesn’t threaten me — it collaborates.
Filing the Form (Even When Perfectionism Gets Loud)
I’ve always struggled with follow-through. My perfectionism turns simple tasks into sagas. I’ll sit down to create, and suddenly I’ve convinced myself I need to wash the dishes, take out the trash, clean the living room — domestic detours that feel useful but really just delay the thing I’m afraid won’t come out perfectly. What’s helped recently is having a partner who honors creativity the way I do. He’s a musician, and when he starts working on his music, it keeps me anchored. I stay in my creative flow longer instead of walking away frustrated over something small. We don’t just share space — we share momentum. I’ve also started asking myself if I can ritualize that spiral: light a candle, wash one dish with intention, then sit down and write one imperfect sentence. That’s what Filing the Form means to me now — not just logistics, but getting myself to the starting line.
Early Patternings and the Voice I’m Rewriting
The message was consistent growing up: “You’re talented. Now go sell it.” I don’t think my mom meant harm. It was encouragement, survival, drive. But I absorbed it like a script: art only matters if it pays. Even now, when I begin a new creative project, that voice surfaces. And sometimes it’s loud. I spent my whole childhood with my mom trying to monetize my work. If I made something, the next step was to figure out how to sell it. That mindset still trails me. Some days, I just want to create and disconnect. I don’t want every gesture to carry the weight of profit. I’m slowly unlearning that early pattern and relearning how to make for the sake of making.
So, What’s Your Pattern?
If you’ve made it this far, maybe something stirred in you. Maybe you’ve got a version of this story. Maybe you inherited a voice that told you art has to be useful to count. Maybe you delay creation because perfection whispers first.
🌿 Milna Cultivates
Good Things Good Days — essays on creativity and becoming.
Originally published on Medium by Milna Cultivates.