On a chilled summer night of the year 1997, there was this little 6 years old girl struggling to fall asleep. With her big eyes wide open staring at the starlight sky that her mom fabricated on her bedroom ceiling, she was asking herself : « Why on earth do I exist ? ». As if she was searching for the answer among the brush strokes, her little mind wandered through a swirl of uncomfortable questions. « What is this thing that we call life ? What am I supposed to do with it ? Am I only a thought trapped in a borrowed flesh or is there more to it ? »

Tangled in an existential dizzyness, playground and children games always felt strange to her as she was only interacting from the mind of an observer. Oh ! And did she observe ! Everyone she would meet, see or hear, adult or child, she would try to understand how they function and why. In the cafeteria, she eavesdropped on at least five conversations at once, noticing every silent detail: the worried look of a boy trying to hide the tomato sauce stain on his new sweater, the mean laughter of a group of kids planning a mischief, the sighs of the cook who no longer has the patience to work with children, and even the expression of disgust of a little girl as she piles the sticky broccoli cream soup under a bun to give the impression that she has eaten enough and is entitled to dessert. To say the least, humans became her passion or you might say her obsession, as it is still today. But this came at a price : the feeling of never fitting in, of being an alien. So stories became her friends. In them, she could be whoever she wished, have all the friends of her dreams and be somewhat important. Alone time and again, she would reenact movies using her plushies and figurines, build the perfect fairy house in cotton swabs and turn everything into characters, even dirt and snow. But her very favorite moment was just before bedtime when her loving mother would tell her stories and create some with her. She loved these moments so much that she wouldn’t let go of her mom’s pyjamas until falling to the floor from the bed just to get another story.

One day, she buckled up the courage and shared to her mother these strange feelings that inhabited her heart. Right then, against all odds, her mother smiled and slipped out a laugh. Knowing her daughter was bright enough, she let her in on the secret. She was also an alien at heart and no one really knows for certain why on earth we are here. « You just have to choose your own purpose. If you don’t like the ones that others have set for themselves and that are trying to put on you, just create one for yourself. Create your own meaning of life, the one that suits you best. »

As stories have always helped me better understand life, humans, myself and choices to make, creating some for others has helped me find other aliens like me, make connections. In time, I found out that there are so many more aliens than I could ever imagine and they come in all shapes and forms, each feeling different dreams and fears. I still don’t know exactly what we are, where we come from or what awaits us behind the curtain of life, but until it is finally discovered either by science or our own demise, let’s search by creating together our own answers as bizarre, scary or joyful as they can be and let’s choose the ones that fuel us to keep being. 

So what am I ? What are my credentials ? In what box can you hold me in ?

I am an artist who loves to search, to tell stories, to write, to draw, to paint, to perform, to make videos, to think, to dance, to play, to organize, to orchestrate, to direct, to risk and try new things, to mix things that doesn’t seem to fit well together, to experiment, to learn, to solve problems and to help others express themselves. Simply put out, I am a creative.

I have been searching for a long time for one story that would portray the perfect example of what I’m trying to share but there are so many…The fact is that I’ve blindly developed a habit all my life and I’m just beginning to try to break free from it, aka to embrace risk as well as the unknown. It’s an insidious habit that many share without even realizing it.

Born a lonely child, I was also living a lonely childhood with my workaholic parents. That is, until the divorce. In my 4th elementary school year, my mom and I moved to a village in the North East of Quebec. I changed schools at least 3 other times before going to college, so I was often the new girl. I didn’t have much time to build strong relationships with other children and, to be fair, I was sooo stressed to be alone again or to be recognized as the intruder that I would mold myself in a way that I could hang with anyone without making a fuss, even with my father that I would see once or twice a year. I made myself an expert at camouflage as I disguised myself as a soft decorative mirror in the corner of a room.

—

Child : « Do you know of Pokemons ? » 

Me : « Of course! Which one is your favorite ? » (I didn’t know a thing.) 

Child : « Bulbozar! » 

Me : « Me too! » 

—

Teenager : « I’m going to win at this exam. I’m going to be the best! » 

Me: « Me too! » (Becoming a rival is a fair way to create bonds.)

—

I made sure that I was always part of the gang, all the gangs, in alignment with their purpose and their opinions. I even learned how to mimic songs' words and melody in an instant just to appear as if I knew all people’s favorite lyrics by heart. It’s quite easy to do with American hits when everyone only speaks French. Either way, no one knows what they are singing. 

So I’ve developed this game of guessing what others preferred and what they were expecting of me, what they were needing. I would fill the hole, like a mirror granting wishes : being the rival for the competitive ones, the tutor for the slow, the ear for the sad and lonely, the cheerleader for the scared, the tranquil and model student for the parents, and so on. Without noticing it, I was living for others.

Although I thought that my mirror was perfect, it was really not. It’s easy enough to copy what one likes or wants but the talents I couldn’t replicate because of my clear lack of social skills just became a weird and distorted attempt to imitate people I longed to connect with, a desperate cry to belong. Laughing at jokes I didn’t understand or answering back with ones too deep or too weird just provoked mean laughter and my face turned red in seconds, which generated even more mean laughter. Fiery sweats rapidly became my trademark everywhere I went. Speaking to a cashier, a classmate, a teacher or just someone I couldn’t read was enough to make me magically transform into a crimson tomato as if I was automatically in danger of being uncovered and cast out. The mirror slowly cracked under the feeling that I was not enough.

Still struggling with my extreme shyness which was interfering with my social performance, I finally enrolled in dramatic art classes at highschool in an attempt to cure it. What I found there was so much more. In the stories we enacted, each person was indispensable unlike in sports class where you were easily discarded if not fit to be a born champion (definitively my profile). Each one had a role to play interconnected with the others and the cooperative work created temporary strong bonds. Sometimes they were so intense that the last day of the shows ended up in tears and heartfelt farewells as if we were forcefully breaking apart a family (but we were seeing each other again next year). Everyone was its own kind of weird, misfit and it was okay. Better even, being different was encouraged and praised. We would write, draw, dance, act, create music and even invent some weird rituals like the orgasm team cry’s wheel. It was freedom, a door to being me, to discover myself and slowly hatch. I then created a backroom behind my mirror. You just had to say the trusting magic words for me to reveal the backstage doorknob. Art opened my eyes, became a lifeline for my social life and a fire to live. 

So I dedicated all my studying years to literature and arts. At university, I learned all about the classical and contemporary important figures that impacted ancient and recent history. A pattern began to be drawn quite clearly in my mind in which almost each artist who made history was once an outcast and some were only recognized after their passing. As a way of succeeding our degree and excelling later in the real world, we were greatly encouraged to « revolutionize » or even repair the traditions with new methods and ideas. However, the untold twist was that each teacher is convinced of his way of thinking to be the best solution. You end up trying to master clown, puppets, tragedy, comedy, performance art, poetry, symbolism, realism, surrealism, absurd, dance, biomecanic, musicals, hybrids, electronics, video, installation art, artistic engineering, social intervention, etc. Sigh In short, you end up drowned in contradictory pulls with way too many professions to learn for a lifetime. Then, how does one determine the best course of action to succeed?

Confused where to focus, I instead tried to reinforce my mirror strategy. As a means to survive each teacher, the challenge became even more tense as they were not specifically telling us what they liked and disliked. But there was no doubt. When a student was to successfully step into their field of interest, they were gaining an ally and many advantages. Some would be given extra counseling time, special contracts and opportunities, be introduced to particular contacts or even be invited to the teacher’s home for bonding time. Unfortunately, I was never that chosen student. The game transformed into a strange one where I longed to be the best amongst the misfits. Still, I was never unique enough to be recognized by my elders, as I was never alike enough to be fully welcomed by my peers. It’s as if there was a different way of being, hidden rules that I couldn’t grasp. Clearly, it still was the social game in which I lacked skills but this time, it was even more crucial to success. Even in the professional field, the social game was the key to everything. The competition was fierce as it began even inside school walls, almost like a battle royal. You had to excel in every class, to be the star of every party, to work your ass off in extra projects, to be fresh, to be original, but also to master the old, to be studious but also an entertainment beast, to be the one that everybody remembers. In other words, to be perfect. Although this society encourages you to push past your limits, the belief they want you to swallow is that only ten percent of the art students are really special and the rest have to cope with it and let go or die trying.

So, as I was trying in one area of my life to prove myself as a worthy artist to my peers, in another I was confronted with the reality of public feedback. While working in a paint school and store, I tried to pinpoint what motivated the large public to buy an art piece. I made many paintings using the mindset that I was taught and displayed them in several collective shop’s exhibitions : purely technical experiments, aesthetic try-outs and poetic artworks to express some of my deep thoughts and feelings. Each time, consumers would prefer to buy the funny gnome, cat or the one painting that fits with the color of their furniture. They would say to me « I always find what you do interesting but I wouldn’t hang it on my walls. » The only painting I made that truly drew them in was my cracked portrait symbolizing the effort to reconstruct yourself after deep mourning pain. But they weren’t drawn to the message, they were just curious about how I made those impressive large cracks and the soft visage. When I asked some of my colleagues why I wasn’t selling art, the answer given was : « There is just too much depth and meaning to it. » Therefore, their art turned out mainly to be for decorative or entertainment purposes. 

So I was facing a contradiction : would I prefer to have a hard time doing my art but hoping to make history or would I prefer to be prolific in my time and become popular amongst the larger public, a completely different image to mirror. I’ve spent many years searching for a way to reconcile both and be praised by everyone. After around 8 years, I hit a wall. It was really hard to get funds and find a commissioner who wanted to broadcast our shows in the professional theater community and my paintings almost never sold at the shop. The impossibility to please everybody was staggering. I was stretching and spreading myself thin, barely able to keep holding the mirror as it was falling in pieces. Amongst my peers, there were so many different opinions as well as in the larger public. There was always someone who preferred the opposite of another. Without noticing it, I began hating what I did. While someone showed appreciation in my artwork, I would never be able to take the compliment nor be proud because I knew it could be better. I knew it didn’t stack up to the standards of another person I know, and another, and another. Therefore, it also didn’t measure up to my standards since I wanted it to be perfect and… I was never enough. Every product I made felt like a failure and I felt like fading down into an abyss of wants, needs and dreams piling up forever, steering me in every direction and dragging me as they were evolving, continuously cracking my mirror. None of this was really mine. I was simply living in the shadows of a world that I did not long for, growing far away from what art triggered in me at the very start. In reality, I’ve spent years searching for a universal truth, an objective winning recipe in a world fundamentally subjective. What a big mess…

In the end, the desire to be appreciated and recognized by everyone was a plague in every part of my life. It made me sick. So much so that I developed back, leg and breath problems that forced me to consult a specialist who slowly woke me up to anxiety, burned out and other health situations that I should monitor. I stopped running behind my mirror, stopped looking only at my own two feet, took a deep long breath, turned the mirror back at me and dared to look it in the eyes, my eyes. I saw where I came from, where I seemed to be heading, where my loved ones were standing and I finally saw the crossroad ahead waiting for me. 

Two choices : 

1. Spread out as much as I can to try gaining the approval and praise of everyone while draining out all that remains of my soul or…

2. Take a deep dive into myself and give my all into what I most believe in regardless of how others view it. 

Today, I understand that motivation itself was my wrongdoing. Trying to please everyone around me guarantees to fail at satisfying one person : me. It’s like a thirst that can never be quenched and, in truth, it’s quite self centered.

So I chose to put down the mirror (as it was all broken anyway) and build up the courage to be disliked as there is no way to please everybody. If not ignored, you will inevitably disappoint or disturb someone, somewhere. That’s art. That’s society. That’s the reality. Being disliked is not a valid reason to disregard yourself. For every like, there is dislike and for every artist, there is a critic. There is no possible control over it. So Risk It.

If I think back about the historical figures who marked history with their different thinking, I honestly don’t think they were doing it for the recognition but purely because it was a cause or a way of life they deeply believed in and it coincidently, genuinely, contributed to others which explains why they were immortalized through the collective memory. The goal was not to win their place in books and museums but to contribute to a greater scheme than themselves, one that gave true meaning to their lives.

If you genuinely contribute with your art or any other part of yourself to something in which you hold strong value, no one can steal your feeling of worth. The people who dislike what you create don't matter anymore and the need for praise disappears as it should do. Changing the motivation is truly changing everything. That’s the real hard lesson to swallow.

Art is a gateway from oneself to others, nothing more, nothing less. So stop trying to open the doors of others, risk opening yours and welcome whoever is coming in.

My name is Arielle Cloutier. I’m from Quebec, Canada.

I’m a multidisciplinary artist, have been writing, drawing, acting and creating all kind of things since my earliest memories of my childhood, have studied litterature, drama and a bit of cinema at university. I’m mostly sefl-taught for visual arts and film making. I have been stage directing and managing alongside my fellow creative colleagues in our collective stage creation company (Collectif DTT) since 2013, did many other side gigs as stage manager or as video performer and have been teaching painting classes since 2019. Even though I have many experiences, I’m pretty sure I’ll be a forever studient of all art forms and human related topics as it is endless. “The more I learn, the more I realize how much I don’t know.” - Albert Einstein

I have never won anything big enough to mention for having stayed in the background and the backstage most of the time. I don’t even wish for it anymore because the only meaningful recognition I need is knowing my work reaches the ones it can help and inspire.