“I have wondered for a long time why it is so hard for artists — especially women — to own their status in the world,” writes artist and author, Lisa Congdon recently. “It took me years to identify confidently as an artist. Why are we so hesitant – at least until we’ve graduated from school or until we’ve ‘made it’ — to proclaim, ‘I am an artist’?”
Sigh. The idea that it is presumptuous and pretentious to call oneself an artist has a long history. It was connected to my gender and the insistence of the music world I grew up in
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I came of age as a composer when two things were happening simultaneously. Women were testing and changing boundaries about themselves and life around them, and composers of atonal, dissonant music fought for a position in the classical music world. Just as I was looking to be included as an equal participant, they famously declared that contemporary music was above the laypeople’s ability to understand, and music, as a ‘high art form’, implied a hierarchy – who could be a composer and what kind of music one could write. Calling oneself a composer, particularly without proper pedigree, became a kind of a reverse impostor syndrome. There was no need to doubt yourself, because everyone around you was doing it so well.
And there I was, back then, naming myself – “I am a composer” without excuse or preface. It was an act of self-definition and self-creation, it was healthy narcissism.
Early on, I would spit it out, daring others to refute me. It was my mantel, my fighting clothes, instead of the more gentle “I write music.” But, by articulating my identity, I was creating a framework that allowed me to explore how I related to the world, particularly as a woman and mother. In an article for Ms Magazine (1990) I wrote how my sexuality and physicality impacted my music,
… my sexuality seems dark and powerful. It comes out of a center place and is wide, continuous, warm, moist. My physical energy is long and deeply rooted. It goes on and on, winding from one rhythm to another, slowly moving out, until, at its peak it is suddenly transformed into something else — a glowing, evanescencing energy. This, for me, is not a climax, but an epiphany.
Staking the claim, my vision became broader – I began to see more opportunities and possibilities. No longer hoping for work, I pursued it. I sent my music to performers without introduction. I became a part of a new music ensemble both as a director and performer, and wrote many pieces for them. I wrote grants, and investigated how to become more connected to community work. And always, I was on the scent of new collaborations and connections, and new works to compose.
These day, naming myself helps me deal with the ups and downs of being a life-long artist. The career of an artist takes a certain kind of exterior and interior toughness, not only a willingness to speak your truth to an audience who may or may not accept it, but also lasting through successes and failures, growth and fallow times, and career ups and downs. But, these are, quite simply, part of being a composer. It is a package deal, and within that context of who I am, this is easier to bear.
Pastel, by Tina Davidson, © 2023
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