"beautiful things don't ask for attention"
existing and creating in an attention economy
My mom says I was drawing before I even learned how to hold a pencil properly. I mean, I still don’t hold a pencil properly, so maybe that doesn’t mean much, but I loved to draw and paint and cut out paper and swirl together ranch and ketchup, not to eat but just because it turned pink. I filled up pages in sketchbooks and scribbled on scrap paper, my birthdays were filled with random craft adjacent gifts, and when I broke my (left) arm, everyone said it was lucky I didn’t break my other arm because at least I could still draw!
I was, obviously, a creative kid.
While I had a few random art classes here and there, art was really done on my own, making whatever I liked. Then my mom hired me a private art tutor.
It was a really sweet idea—if your daughter loves art and spends every spare moment making things, why not find a special teacher to help her learn? But I was, for one thing, resistant to change, and for another, afraid of others’ opinions. I begged for my mom not to make me take art classes, mainly because I didn’t know this random lady I was supposed to spend hours with (even though it was in the comfort of my own home, and she was a very nice lady). But on a deeper level, I didn’t want anyone to tell me that I was doing art wrong—that I didn’t know what I was doing and everything I made sucked.
Art was fun. I already knew that I wasn’t as good as these child prodigies that I saw in articles (and probably never would be, already a source of stress for me) but I also didn’t want someone to tell me everything I did wrong. In my head that’s what it would be—you’re holding this wrong, you’re mixing this wrong, you’re shading this wrong. I was really scared that this thing I loved so much would become painful. Honestly, I don’t think that would have happened, not in this instance. My tutor at that time was quite sweet and helpful and I really do remember learning a lot! But just when I was easing into it, feeling okay with the idea of this art class, my mom let me stop.
Why? Wasn’t I just getting the hang of it? I thought I was fine.
My mom told me later that she had a conversation with the tutor—apparently I was making art in class but hardly created outside of it. I wasn’t choosing to do art in my spare time anymore. I wasn’t even aware that was happening.
Instead of encouraging my mom to keep me as a student, the tutor thought I should stop. She told my mom about a previous student, someone with a lot of talent and skill, who attended an art school for university. And then she graduated, burnt out, burning everything she had made. She didn’t love art anymore and wanted to be free from it.
My mom didn’t want me to hate art.
I went on to take other art classes throughout the years—all very chill classes with a lot of customization based on your interests and ability. Maybe that’s what art class usually is? There was no art class boycott, just an awareness that if I’m forced to make things, I probably will stop. I could burn out, too.
I loved art, and hated people telling me what to do.
I used to take notes on infomercials. With my trusty Monsters Inc notebook, which might honestly still be tucked away in the garage somewhere, I would write down every commercial that caught my eye. What was the product, how much did it cost (how many payments of $9.99??), why would my life be better if I bought it? I couldn’t possibly buy all of them, but I had my favorites. Of course, I loved Pillow Pets (mine was a Kangaroo with a little pocket for a mini Joey Pillow Pet)! I desperately wanted that random ceramic dish to microwave a single egg and a birdfeeder with one way glass for birdwatching through our window. Some ads I immediately identified as junk, others seemed life saving.
On our 2012 cross country road trip, I remember designing logos for imaginary brands—a pancake house, a frozen yogurt shop offering one of those customizable soda machines but for froyo, a spile for cactus so you could always hydrate in the desert (I came up with that one in Arizona). Branding fascinated me! This was also the same trip where I discovered my love for photography, apparently it was a formative trip.
I loved good branding, but I still hated people telling me what to do.
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty premiered when I was 11. I don’t think I even watched it in theaters, but sometime soon after; it changed me. A movie centered on photography and imagination and overcoming your anxieties about life? Count me in.
Walter Mitty accidentally travels the world in his pursuit of photographer Sean O’Connell. Searching for a missing negative for the perfect final cover photo—a photo that captures the “quintessence of life,” Mitty changes his life. He’s a background character, living alone, imagining extraordinary circumstances in his head but living out a humdrum existence. He hasn’t been anywhere or done anything, not because he doesn’t want adventure, but he’s scared and maybe thinks it’s just not possible for him.
When he catches up with this photographer in the Himalayas, they sit behind a camera observing a snow leopard. This ghost cat simply existing. Then O’Connell says something that has stuck in my head for a decade.
”Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.”
When is he going to click the shutter, capture the moment? “Sometimes I don’t. If I like a moment, I mean, me, personally. I don’t like to have the distraction of the camera. Just wanna stay in it…Right here.”1
He’s a photographer literally traveling to the ends of the earth to take these photos, but he wants to keep his favorite moments sacred. How do you live that out?
Next month, I graduate. I’ll have a degree in advertising and graphic design and an intolerance for how many things are marketed to us on a daily basis.
Magazines, billboards, and TV commercials are still around, just less prominent. Now we have YouTube ads, TikTok shop, Instagram stories and #sponsorships and even BeReal litters me with ads. I don’t think these things are inherently bad, but they are exhausting.
Everywhere you look, something is asking for your attention. Pay attention to this! Pay attention to me!
With the rise of influencers and content creators, this vying for our attention is not limited to brands—we also have personal brands. Find me authentic and aesthetic and relatable. Trust me.
I think we are more aware of this than ever. We were always being marketed to, but now our favorite influencers clearly make a commission on the cute clothes that they link and sponsorships require disclosure.
So much of marketing is pay attention to me and so much of art is like me and think I’m unique. Personally? I’m tired.
I believe in good work—in good art! It’s valuable to learn color theory and perspective and to draw a realistic eyeball! I want to paint en plein air (something not at all prevented by skill level, just intimidation) and create a well constructed sentence (something I am not claiming to do here) and bake a perfect cake. I want to support people doing things well!
How do people know about your sourdough home bakery or website design business if you don’t tell them? How can people know if they have not heard? That’s where marketing comes in.
But when everything is marketing? I’m speaking as a person, not a brand. It feels disingenuous to say things you know people want to hear whether or not it is true. Because even if it is true, knowing it’s what people want to hear makes it not totally authentic. (This is not objective truth! Just my feelings about this matter for myself!)
Sometimes I think I know what would go viral, what would resonate with the masses. I have said the answer I think people want to hear and been right—I literally won an environmental giveaway at 13 by offering up tips that I thought would be just helpful enough without being extreme or uncomfortable (emotional support water bottles are socially acceptable, reusable pads are not). But I don’t like limiting what I say to what is acceptable if I don’t believe it to be the whole truth (nuance is much less excitable) and perhaps I’m afraid of discovering that I don’t understand people as well as I thought.
How embarrassing would it be to put out there how well I understand people and communicate only to discover I’m completely off base? I don’t think I’m always right in my perceptions of people, but I do think my fear is mostly the former—I hate lying.
I would make a terrible spy. I only want to tell the truth, and yes I want to tell it beautifully and have others see the beauty too! But if I’m always so honest, I’m also so vulnerable. I find it hard to care about something that I’m not passionate about—I know that’s redundant. But honestly! How do I put effort into something if it isn’t important to me, but if everything is important to me, I’m emotionally spent. How can I care more and less?
Also—I’m sensitive! I’ve always been sensitive but also desire complete honesty. I desperately want you to like me, but I will not change anything about myself to make that happen. I care about what people think but refuse to make any different decisions because of it. Some part of me has always intrinsically believed that someone liking a false version of me may as well be rejecting me as I truly am. But I still care! What if no one ever likes me again and I’m shunned from my community and I’m entirely rejected and lose my home and die? Those are the stakes my brain places on literally everything, and it’s—can you see a theme?—exhausting.
Sometimes I’m in a healthy place where I can say “that’s not true, because no part of my life has proven to be so.” And sometimes I’m not in such a good spot and the voices get louder.
Art is so subjective. Technology and design has changed so much! They will continue to change. No one is going to make something liked by everyone. My mom and Grandma don’t like flowers very much because they die. I like flowers because they remind me to pay attention to right now.
Honestly, I struggle with staying present. I’m nostalgic and anxious—the past and future are wrestling in my head for my attention. But when I’m behind the lens, I’m 100% there. What beautiful things can I notice? Would would I be missing out on if I don’t look closer or from a different angle?
Where Sean O’Connell looks away from the camera to stay present, I look through.
There’s a side to the quote I don’t think they meant, but little Amelia somehow internalized. If beautiful things don’t ask for attention, maybe I can’t ask for people to pay attention to me, because you only deserve attention if you don’t ask. But what if I am feeling lonely and I need to talk to a friend? What if I’m looking for a job? What if I make something I’m proud of? What if I want to share my art with the world? (clearly something I never prioritized—no opinions on my art please)
I know that’s not really what the movie is saying. Actually it’s quite encouraging—stop living in your head and try the things you’ve only dreamed of!
Those beautiful things might not ask for attention, but they do command it. It’s why we stop to take photos of the most vibrant sunsets at gas stations and admire redwoods in our smallness and their vastness, and imagine animals in the clouds. As valuable and thought provoking as art can be, I don’t think anything will be as beautiful as sunsets and flowers and mountains and meadows. We’re just trying to reflect some small part. We might view such subjects as sentimental or cliché, but maybe that’s our human reaction to something so faithfully beautiful. You’re the one missing out if you don’t see the beauty, the sun will keep setting regardless.
That’s how I try to use my Instagram—I post things I like, moments I want to remember. I can appreciate people using social media to reach a large audience and create a living, but dang I already have people unfollowing me because they don’t like my posts and I just post pretty pictures (to me, subjectively). Can you imagine if my livelihood was dependent on if enough people liked what I shared?
Sometimes I’m in a good place to create and share. I love making things! I love seeing what others create and it’s fun to join that. But sometimes I feel so fragile—I don’t want anyone to perceive me or respond. Of course, I fear a negative response. But even positive feedback means someone has seen me. And I just want to hide.
And I’m sure that has to do with me and how I choose or refuse to use social media. I only want to share things that I care about; maybe it would be less tiring to care less. If I shared things I didn’t care about. Sometimes it feels like you’re shouting in the void—here are my thoughts and opinions, world or nobody. You could be creating for nobody at all, or a million people. Underwhelming and overwhelming at the same time.
So I may as well create things I care about. But it’s hard to just throw things out into the void with a million other pieces of content (because it isn’t all art) asking, by the act of existing, to be paid attention to.
If I can figure out a way to be less fragile and more grounded in the things I love in real life, maybe I would fare alright. Maybe I could put my art out and ask people to pay attention and feel okay. But when I was around 10, I wrote a personal artist manifesto about how real artists create for the sake of art and not attention. I think there was an aspect of jealousy—that people could be so okay with sharing what they made. But also honesty—I didn’t want my art to be affected by attention…dang this has been a recurring theme throughout my life.
I’ve always been scared of anyone seeing what I make. Maybe because I wanted to keep it sacred. Maybe because a rejection of my art would actually be a rejection of me. I certainly wasn’t Amy March saying “I want to be great or nothing!” I wanted to make things and hide in a safe little hole where no one could see me. I’d love to be a Hobbit, actually. Now I understand more the desire to share the things you make—it’s still vulnerable but also valuable, opening doors for connection. But I tend to exist in these extremes; share nothing at all or everything at once. I’d like to find a balance.
In 2023, Southern California had another so-called superbloom. When we visited the poppies in 2019, it was the Wild West. Cars parked on the freeway because streets were backed up so much. People sat on poppies to get the perfect photo. By the next superbloom, the park had closed to prevent another swarm. I found a nature trail next to a housing development, mainly built for neighborhood walks, but the end of the trail opened onto a hill. A wide open space filled with poppies and wildflowers! This was my paradise. I wanted to stay in that moment forever, on that hill with poppies as far as the eye could see. I can’t freeze time. But I can take a photo. My mom hiked with me, taking countless photos of me in front of the poppies while I took countless photos of the flowers themselves. When we went home, I didn’t post anything. I edited those photos that day, then tucked them away.
I didn’t want to post photos and receive questions about where the poppies were, sure. I didn’t want to send anyone to this quiet hill sprinkled with flowers that had, as of yet, seemed untouched by crowds. But more than that, this day was special to me and it felt wrong to let the world see it so soon. I shared a couple months later, when it was no less special but certainly less raw.
Maybe that’s why I like hands-on creating so much—baking and painting and sewing and knitting. Not because I’m any good, but because they give me an outlet to create with no expectation. No one is watching me make potato soup. No one is monitoring my progress on that one scarf I’ve been knitting since October. I’m doing those things because I want to. Because they feel real when everything else doesn’t.
I want to make things and not worry about what people think, and I also want to share them with the world. I want to feel seen and also never ever be perceived. Whether I know it or not, I’m asking myself questions with everything I create.
Am I a beautiful thing? Will you pay attention without me asking?