Why has there, for years, been a deep part of me that assumed I would not be successful in my chosen career?
It manifested itself for a long time in the denial of my having ambitions beyond merely learning as much as I could. Then, once I broke through that lie, it appeared perhaps still more seditiously in the permeating sense that I am “too old” and yet have too little experience, too few credits to my name, while also not fitting neatly in the classic box into which young opera singers are conveniently codified.
Ah. That gets close to the root doesn’t it?
Because somewhere early along the way I profoundly internalized the sense that those who forged their own paths and patterns — who must therefore be the best and truest artists — would always be pariahs. — A rule the brain can conveniently make exceptions to for those few famous artists whom it loves the most. But how easy to dismiss anyone as Mainstream as soon as they become well-known and ‘successful’! And what a tidy way to sure up the belief that those who have the most odd and interesting and passionately curious voices will never be widely heard.
The fact that buried in this foolish conviction lies the clear proof that I always believed my voice to be interesting and worth hearing may be its only saving grace.
“I am interesting, intelligent and curious, therefore I will not be successful.” — There, I just had to spell it out to make very apparent how ridiculous it is, and how very unfair my brain has been to me for…decades. (To be honest, I relish being able to say “decades”…But that’s a major tangent for another day.)
Hand-in-hand with this deep subconscious pattern of assumption — call it self-sabotage; call it a bizarre martyr-complex; call it what you will — goes my childhood choice of romantic hero: Cyrano de Bergerac, whose life << fut d’être celui qui souffle — et qu’on oublie ! >>, a prompter in the wings of love and of success.
It wasn’t that that self-given epitaph specifically attracted me to him — No! it was the grand selflessness, the fearless individuality, the poetic rage against the machine. But that line was there, under it all. Cyrano’s tragedy, after all, is that he never did step out of the shadow, however much he flashed in the light. He fought all that went against his ideals, with no concern for his safety, but when it came to what he most profoundly loved and longed for, the fear of being made a fool, of being misunderstood and mocked, pushed him further and deeper into the dark shade of tree and balcony and barracks.
I do not intend to renounce my admiration and delight at this poetic hero. However, it is high time I reframe the reference in my heart. May I be, then, braver, not more combative; may I step fully into the light in spite of… well, ‘Nose’, without fear of derision, with arms open wide to all consequences.
Perhaps, without groveling, without becoming ‘parasitic ivy’, one can nevertheless emerge into one’s dreams, quelling the fear of success and its accompanying responsibilities.
Cyrano. But speaking in my own voice, in the full light of day, taking firm hold of the reality of my desires, in all their brightness, validity, and viability.
ARB
October 2022
<< N'écrire jamais rien qui de soi ne sortît,
Et modeste, d'ailleurs, se dire: mon petit,
Sois satisfait des fleurs, des fruits, même des feuilles,
Si c'est dans ton jardin à toi que tu les cueilles !
Puis, s'il advient d'un peu triompher par hasard,
Ne pas être obligé d'en rien rendre à Cesar,
Vis-à-vis de soi-même en garder le mérite,
Bref, dédaignant d'être le lierre parasite,
Lors même qu'on n'est pas le chêne ou le tilleul,
Ne pas monter bien haut, peut-être, mais tout seul ! >>
“To never write anything that does not proceed from the self,
And modest, moreover, to tell oneself: my little one,
Be satisfied with the flowers, the fruits, the leaves even,
if it is in your very own garden that you gather them!
Then, if it happens that you have some victory, by chance,
To not be required to render anything unto Caesar,
To retain all credit for your own self,
In short, scornfully refusing to be parasitic ivy,
Even if one is not the oak or the linden,
To not climb very high, perhaps, but all alone!”
— Cyrano de Bergerac, Edmond Rostand (transl. ARB)