How do you navigate a world so full of opportunities and light when you stand just out of reach? Standing at the bottom of the mountain I am told to climb, I can’t help but scoff at the poor excuse of footholds. Nearly half would crumble instantly at the sudden weight of my foot, while others appeared too small to grasp or too far up to be worth the risk. Besides, no one truly knows what lies at the top of the mountain. Some expect to discover all the answers they’ve been searching for, while some hope to find someone waiting for them on the other side. The truth is, the mountain is different for each person, and there is no telling how high you have to go or how long you will be climbing. There’s no guarantee that you will reach the top, if there even is one, for the prospect of falling is inevitable. An even greater challenge, however, is catching yourself before hitting the bottom. It is my belief that there is no end to the mountain; its rocky expanse seems to tower for centuries, and my eyes start to sting from the staring. The harsh shadows it casts against my face feel cool as I stretch towards the sun, almost visible through the miles of mist separating us. If I close my eyes, I can imagine that world, where my hand is intertwined with light, and somehow my feet find the right footholds.
But before I can register the warmth dancing in my fingertips, the wind’s cry swoops underneath me, and the familiar feeling of solid ground replaces that weightless hope. I am back in society’s classroom surrounded by the other pupils of light, all eager to find themselves through the climb. I marvel at their determination as they share their chosen career paths, so confident that doctors, scientists, and lawyers will have the greatest success rate in reaching the top. And maybe they will make it, but I am not interested in following those paved routes. I prefer the winding and rickety journey of art, though its unrequitedness cannot be entirely blamed on society. Despite the poorly hidden whispers of doubt from people near and far, I find myself chanting the same oppressive tune, only this time, I listen.
My relationship with art is not simple – we are not lovers, but rivals. A constant battle of small victories and laborious losses as we scrap together what little ammunition we have left to secure the upper hand. I pour everything I have into art, hoping that this passion is not wasting my breath or crumbling into chalk like the footholds the mountain tempts me with. Still, there is only one pathway set for me, and if I must face my rival to conquer it, then I will. Years pass, and art morphs into the thousands of forms it knows: a rushing river, a dry desert, a glistening sun. Its image is so captivating, I want nothing more than to recreate a picture with such beauty, yet it looks wrong in my hands. I remember someone’s voice echoing in my head: ‘There are no mistakes in art,’ but when my eyes survey the picture, all I see is a blaring red ‘X.’ It’s not right. It’s not beautiful. I have to try again, but the eraser I cling to slips from my sweaty palms, and the paper has become too worn to bear any more of my useless scribbling. I reach for more paper, but there is nothing left in the dark hole I have dug myself into, deeper and deeper to believe my failures as truths. Art mocks me through whatever medium I choose – the lines, the paint strokes, the pixels. They bleed through each rough draft, each miserable creation, and it’s hard to distinguish if the blood is my own or my rival’s. The stains are everywhere, a giant cauldron of tears, oils, and colors smearing across the landscapes of my canvas and the portraits of my soul. My hands are shackled to the paper, and I can’t feel anything. The lead snaps. My calluses burn. The ink smudges coat my fingers. Clay hardens underneath my nails. Art has me beaten, but I soldier on. Because I need to feel something. I need to feel beautiful.
It’s all in my head – of course I know that. But art isn’t subjective when the only judge is yourself. The whispers bouncing off the classroom walls are mere white noises compared to the onslaught of crashing cymbals and alarm bells I endure inside. I won’t know if I can do better unless I keep trying, and I won’t climb that mountain unless I get better at trying. So I practice. I erase. Every day is the same. But nothing looks right. Nothing looks beautiful. ‘You’re not good enough,’ art sneers in my mind, or maybe the voice I heard was my own. I am my own rival, too. The struggle is just as endless as the mountain’s looming form. There’s no way out.
Somehow, I pick myself up in time to pass that graduating classroom, and after wading through emotions I haven’t yet named, I find a new face greeting me at the door. Society recruits me into their world of dark: a plain and steady street lined with cubicles and black coffee. It’s a break from the cloudy haze my mind resided in during all those years following art’s unforgiving path. I almost start to enjoy the success I’ve reached as I climb from ladder to elevator shaft to staircase. The ascent has never been this easy, but when I raise my head, my steps falter and I’m scrambling for footholds again. But I find none because this isn’t my mountain. There isn’t any light at the top. And I wasn’t really falling – because I was never really climbing at all.
In a heap, I entangle my limbs from the rubble of concrete and black leather that made up my momentary home in society’s game. Instead, I clutch at the gravelly floor in comfort as I’m faced again with the steep summit known as my mountain. The mountain twists and leans forward, inching in on itself, while its smaller footholds come loose and debris rains from the sky. Its walls start to thin, and the pull of the earth under my feet tells me the mountain is sinking. I am running out of time. The possibility of seeing the top never graced my wildest dreams, as the road leading to happiness was clouded over by those miles of mist I now understand as my thoughts. I wish I had the strength to blow them away, but I still have a lot to learn. Learning how to rethink all those negative thoughts. Learning how to actually love my art. Maybe I’ll figure out how to love myself.
It’s one thing to realize the outstretched hand pulling you back belongs to society, but it’s a far more devastating truth to recognize your own hand attached to it. I once had hope, passion and love, but those all feel superficial to me now. I can’t shake what is real in favor of leading a climb full of pretending. The journey might not be beautiful – it will have its highs and lows, a fair share of light and dark, but I am not seeking perfection. The picture I paint, sketch, or ink doesn’t have to be as dynamic as a rushing river, or as barren as a dry desert, or as radiant as a glistening sun. It just has to be mine. My style. My path. That’s enough, as long as I know where I’m going. I don’t need to reach the top because I have already made peace at the bottom. So I will climb my mountain, the one from my imagination, where every single step is supported by that warm, embracing light. Now and then, I will open my eyes and see that the footholds only get stronger and closer together. I’ve learned that I can create the world within my reach. And I’ll keep trying. Because I can climb that mountain.
Author’s Note:
I used the mountain metaphor to capture the emotional struggle adolescents face when deciding how to spend the rest of their lives after high school. This piece reflects my own experiences graduating and wanting to pursue the arts, while dealing with the societal expectations that advised me against it. I’ve mostly overcome those doubts, including my growth in understanding my self-worth, but my story is far from over. This piece highlights the journey so far and the mindset I’ve built through that process, but most importantly, it marks the beginning of the path I plan to follow into the future, with greater confidence in the direction I’ve chosen.
Paige Nicholson | 17 | Ontario, Canada
