Did Poverty Make Me A Better Artist?

Why it's not such a black and white answer

Orson Welles.

In The Beginning…

It’s 6th grade. Spirit week is coming up and I’m thinking of who to be for “Superhero Day”. I take the blue lid of a baby formula can and tape it on the chest of my t-shirt, and make a silver sleeve made of duct tape—suddenly in my mind I have become Tony Stark with his prototype Iron Man gauntlet. Another day, I cut sunglasses out of cardboard, paint them black and glue red plastic wrap while taping a cardboard “X” onto my jacket to become Cyclops, leader of the X-Men.

It’s now 9th grade. For a business/marketing assignment I “create” a guitar pedal company and edit YouTube footage of Daft Punk on the family computer. I record a voiceover with a cheap clip-on microphone I found in the living room, pretending they were brand ambassadors. I got an A in the project.

Fast forward to 11th grade, now planning with the class officers on how to advertise prom. I painstakingly design posters on the free version of Canva, download a “Travis Scott type beat” off a YouTube-to-mp3 website; and record a promotional rap song using GarageBand on my phone. I call the song “Prom Mode”, and release it on Soundcloud. News of the songs spreads amongst peers and I even get to perform it on prom night.

Reflecting on these memories (there’s many more), I realize that the need to create—whatever really, out of playful curiosity or desire for self expression has followed me all of my youth and into my adulthood. However, a troubling phenomenon usually follows; a feeling of guilt and lack of satisfaction both when I complete the task or fail to pursue that creative impulse.

More Money, More Problems (And Resources)

In my earliest memories, I was creating with what I had, objects and circumstances that were not ideal and made both the process and outcome more fascinating than a conventional method. From this angle it could be argued that poverty made me more creative; I had to think outside the box, working with only what I had in front of me. That is a fair argument, but I can vividly remember the frustration of not having the adequate resources to create the way I wanted to. It clouded the sense of joy that came with the achievement.

I felt embarrassed needing to make my own costumes instead of buying something off of Amazon or eBay—hell even thrifting it when thrifting was actually cheap. Going to school with kids who had little to no issues getting what they needed made it worse. The aching desire to create art of all kinds and the ideation that followed turned into frustration when I had nothing to bring those ideas to life. In high school it was my dream to write and record albums; but I did not have any instruments or equipment to record my songs or little melodies that came to mind.

I couldn’t stay after school besides orchestra (the only dad-approved extra curricular), and due to family circumstances I won’t share here; any attempts to stay after school was seen as an inconvenience.

When I couldn’t create things I went to expressing existing works; and joined the winter Shakespeare play my sophomore year of high school. Because of the “inconvenience” of my involvement; I was guilt tripped into missing the rehearsal shoot of the play—and as of now there’s little to no proof of my involvement and existence in the play that winter. Not only was there a lack of finances and resources, but also a poverty of time.

It Was All In My Mind

Scent of a Woman, 1992.

At the time I was making my silly prom song, Steve Lacy had released his first EP, also recorded on an iPhone with GarageBand. I found his work a bit frustrating—I was upset and confused on what he could accomplish with similar gear when I couldn’t, or thought I couldn’t.

In hindsight, I realize that my creativity did not suffer primarily from lack of money, time or resources but primarily poverty of spirit. The uphill battle of the creative process slowly chipped away at my identity as an artist instead of taking it as a challenge. Whenever I opened up about my desires to pursue music and the arts at home, it was rejected, and I let that rejection redefine who I was as opposed to clinging to the conviction that I had a voice, a God-given desire and disposition to create.

I internalized the idea that it was better not to create at all than to try with what I had. I accepted the notion that it was futile, that any creative industry was hard to get into and that I did not have (and still do not have) what it takes.

This reality has left me missing that younger, passionate and creative version of myself. I went through college struggling with creative endeavors, and trying to compromise practicality with the creative arts by pursuing an architecture degree (don’t ask me how that’s working out).

This discouragement led to a hardness of heart that would weigh on me, so much that when I would make any kind of art I felt spiritually maimed; as if I had a hand tied behind my back whenever I tried to create, even though I was fully able-bodied.

I now work a decent job and have some money that I can buy the equipment I need or pay for a recording space and engineers for studio time— and yet, I hesitate. This February I recorded and released two songs on acoustic guitar nearly a year after I had written it and now don’t relate to anymore. I am an archive of ideas and melodies that no one else knows or cares about.

Sometimes I think of where my role models were at my age and what they accomplished, and I often feel like a failure in comparison. I find that saying that at 24 is a bit ridiculous, but it is nonetheless a strong feeling I am bothered by.

Despite all the internal struggle, I am slowly fostering my identity as an artist. I’ve been shooting more film, writing songs, learning guitar and even created a website to display my work. I’ve revisited old google docs and folders with unfinished lyrics and demo recordings from my old personal email.

I resent letting all the internal and external discouragement get to me, but I am not allowing that to keep me from creating any longer. Sure, I am revisiting my passions much later than I would’ve wanted. I still don’t know much music theory, or how to record properly on my laptop. I have all these expectations and a perfectionist mindset I am working through, but I am still creating nonetheless, and that is what matters.

In essence—yes, not having all the resources made me creative in certain settings. However, I was more affected by my wounded self-esteem and identity in the midst of hardship. By embracing struggle and not discouragement, I am finding joy in the process and outcome of anything I make; whether big or small, famous or unknown, intricate or simple. Even if it’s a superhero prop made out of cardboard.