A Blank Page

By Maddy Kwan / Winter 2025

A blank page is an invitation for creation. It is nothing, yet it is simultaneously everything that can be. A blank page is a mirror. It reaches into its viewer’s circumstances, thoughts, and emotions. In the same way that an empty space is the best for projection, a blank page provokes its viewer to question the world within them so that they can project it to the world without. As I write these words, I breathe life into this page. In turn, it breathes life into me.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve found fulfillment in art. I reveled in bringing stories to life through drawing, which was a world of endless possibilities for me to explore. When asked by my parents about my favorite subject in school, I’d instantly reply, “Art!” To this, my dad would always laugh and respond:

I. “Art is just a hobby.”

This is a common mantra in many households, especially Asian ones. My parents would always tell cautionary tales about family friends who pursued a field in the arts, warning me and my siblings not to follow the same path. These people, according to traditional standards, were by no means successful. I understood my parent’s concerns for my future and took them to heart. Art is something that can be enjoyed, but there is no way you can succeed with it. And if you cannot succeed with something, it is practically worthless.

When I got to high school, I began to see my value in academic success. My older sister, Rachel, had set an incredibly high standard in school. She was the golden child: a disciplined, straight-A student who was both scientifically and mathematically inclined. Many of the teachers at my high school loved her and knew about her academic achievements. They all knew me as “Rachel’s sister.” It seemed that their only interest in talking to me was to ask about how my sister was. Because of this, I became motivated to stand out in some way. I wanted to prove myself. Despite my best efforts, however, I could never really match her academic performance. I grew bitter and turned to art as a form of escapism. It was the one thing I could do “better” than my sister, so I leaned into it to soothe my feelings of inadequacy.

I began to share my work online, feeling comfortable in the anonymity that the internet provided. Sharing my art with an audience, no matter how small, brought a new edge of excitement to my hobby. At first, I was content with the small community of artists that I had found. I continued to spend more and more time on social media and ran into the same problem that I was trying to avoid in the first place: comparison. All over social media were artists who were younger than me but leagues beyond my skill level. I felt disgustingly jealous every time I saw someone with more followers or likes than me. What made them deserve it more than me? I figured that my lack of followers was a testament to my skill level, and therefore, my worth. If I couldn’t even succeed with art, then I had nothing. The numbers on my screen became a way for me to gauge my value. I did as much as I could to grow my audience to get the validation I so craved. It was then that art took on a different meaning for me. It wasn’t just about creating anymore; it was about making a name for myself. Art became my identity. I developed an intense fear of failure and became obsessed with making my drawings “perfect.” If people didn’t believe in my art, they didn’t believe in me. From there, I set out to somehow prove my worth.

College application season came around and my parents started to prod me about what I wanted to do in the future. I told them I’d study biology to make them stop asking me questions because if they kept asking, I’d be forced to confront the fact that I had no idea what I wanted. Instead, I focused my attention on my personal online project. Application deadlines were around the corner, but they didn’t stop me from spending hours in my room every day practicing art and trying to find success on social media. At times, I found myself making art just for the sake of posting something on my account, regardless of whether I wanted to draw or not. This of course led to burnout, but in the end, the little hits of dopamine that came with each like and follow pushed me forward. One day, I awoke to one of my posts going viral. I finally did it! There was something so validating about knowing I had done everything on my own. The excitement from that moment gave me newfound confidence, and I decided to show my parents what I’d been working on mostly in secret for the past couple of years. Their response was the last thing I expected.

II. “You should apply to art school.”

I stared at my dad for a second. My dad stared back, dead serious. “Look up the application deadline for some art schools. There’s probably still some time to apply.” I laughed incredulously and recited his own words–words I had come to understand as truth: “Art is just a hobby.” I was proud of myself for finding some amount of success online and grateful that he believed in my abilities, but none of these things mattered in the face of comparison. I knew that there were so many people my age or younger who could draw a hundred times better than me, so what was the point in trying? In addition, pursuing art felt selfish. My parents had sacrificed their passions to find stability, so shouldn’t I do the same? In some twisted way, I felt like finding joy in my career path was an indication that I was lazy and only wanted to follow the easy road. If I didn’t struggle or work myself to the bone in pursuit of my career, it was because I was incapable. And so, I applied as a biology major to every college, believing that it was the only way I could make my parents proud.

College application decisions came out a few months later, and I was mortified to open automated rejection letters from every school I thought I’d get into. The only schools that accepted me were ones that, in my eyes, were not prestigious enough to be considered “good.” Again, I began to compare myself to my classmates who had gotten into their dream schools. I was filled with jealousy, anger, and shame, the entire process reaffirming my belief in my inadequacy. After going back and forth with my parents about whether I should go to community college, I decided to commit to UCR, a school I had previously sworn I wouldn’t go to because I thought it lacked prestige. In the midst of what I believed to be my academic failure, I once again turned to art, clinging to it as my only source of value. As long as I could fall back on my artistic abilities, I wasn’t completely worthless. In the months leading up to my first year of college, I started looking into careers in the animation industry. That’s when I found out about storyboarding–the process of bringing a script to life through visuals. It was exactly everything I loved about creating. I spoke with many people who worked in the industry, eager to learn more about what it was like working in the field. Each person admitted that they shared doubts similar to mine. They knew that there was a risk in pursuing their passion, but in a way that many would call delusional or idealistic, they pushed through and found success. Their stories filled me with hope and determination, and I started to believe there was a chance I could actually succeed as an artist. I solidified my resolve the week before school started and changed my major to art, nervous but excited about how different my life would be from that point on.

III. “What’s your major?”

In college, this question is one of the first things you hear whenever meeting someone. I always hated answering this question. Telling people that I majored in art was always accompanied by some level of embarrassment and shame. Though I was committed to applying myself fully to find success in the field, it still felt like I was taking the “easy” way out. I wasn’t on the sure path to becoming a lawyer or a doctor, I was on the path to probably becoming a starving artist. I felt like people thought I was being unrealistic and didn’t believe I could succeed; perhaps I was projecting a part of me that still doubted myself. I responded to this doubt by picking up my pencil. Instead of going out, meeting people, and exploring my new college life, I spent most of my time bent over my desk drawing. During class, I studied different ways I could draw my professors instead of paying attention to their lectures. In my breaks, I’d pull out my sketchbook and draw what I saw around me. I enrolled in classes outside of UCR to learn directly from professionals in the industry. I was fully determined to prove everyone wrong, myself included.

At this time I was motivated more than ever before, drawing more than I ever had in my life. It was tiring at times, but my obsession with my new goal made it hard to stop. That is until one day, my wrist started hurting from over-exertion. At first, I was unworried. It was a normal experience for artists and it had happened to me a couple of times in the past. I shrugged it off and continued to draw, thinking that the pain was temporary like every other time. After a few months, however, the pain remained so I decided to see the doctor. A few weeks and a blood test later, my doctor broke the news.

IV. “You have Rheumatoid Arthritis.”

In that moment my plans for the future, much like my bones, deteriorated. I was furious at my circumstances; how could this happen to me if I was only 18? Why would this happen right after I built up the resolve to pursue my passion? In my anger, I ignored the pain and continued to draw, as if tricking my body into thinking it was ok would make it so. Unsurprisingly, my condition worsened and even the smallest daily tasks became a great burden. The pain spread to my knee and my jaw, so I walked with a pronounced limp and could barely open my mouth to eat. Even holding a pencil was painful; every trembling line I drew was a reminder that my life would never be the same.

Feeling utterly dejected, I began to journal. I poured myself out onto the pages of my notes app, writing with no reason other than to process my emotions. Every blank page was a new opportunity to get to know myself better. In doing so, I realized just how much of my worth I put into my art and how unhealthy it had become. So much of my obsession was built on fear, comparison, and the approval of others. Somewhere in between it all, I had lost sight of what I enjoyed most about art: telling a story. As I continued to write, I found another means of artistic expression. If I couldn't express my feelings through drawing, I would paint them with words. Since then, I have realized the process of writing is much like the process of drawing. Though being a storyboard artist wasn’t written in my future, there is still a way for me to connect with my passion. The path I'm on now is completely different than the one I envisioned, but unpredictability is what makes for a good story--and mine is far from ending.

V.

Looking back on my story until now, I see the systemic issues that affected my relationship with my art and ideas of success. Society urges everyone to put their value in something external. The things we consume have become representative of who we are. These are the effects of neoliberalism, which “sees competition as the defining characteristic of human relations” and “redefines citizens as consumers.” (Monbiot). In my experience, I was constantly comparing myself to others’ successes; from my sister to my classmates, to strangers online, I always felt like I was inferior in some way. I got caught up in the rat race, in which everyone is trying to prove themselves better than everyone else, climbing over each other to reach the ultimate reward of success and prestige. Neoliberalism “rewards merit and punishes inefficiency.” This is why so many people, myself included, are trapped in the mindset of overworking themselves so they feel like they have worth. It is why I felt so ashamed to admit that I was pursuing a career in the arts–there is little merit in that field and a low chance that I would find as much success as my peers pursuing a career in STEM. Because we are taught to put our identities in our achievements, it is easy to measure our value through things like how many followers we have, what school we go to, what major we are, or how our work is received by others. The Students for a Democratic Society said it best: “There is no real conception of personal identity except one manufactured in the image of others, no real urge for personal fulfillment except to be almost as successful as the very successful people.”

As Chomsky said in The Requiem for the American Dream, businesses see and understand “the need to direct people to the superficial things of life.” Because we are so caught up in measuring ourselves through our “success,” we do not realize we are becoming a cog in the machine that encourages this behavior. This machine has the power to pervert passions like my own and turn them into something that feeds into corporate domination. Take AI art, for example. AI art is a “solution to a problem that never existed” (Forbes). With it, anyone can “create” extremely detailed illustrations in seconds. Companies see it as a way to cut costs and labor to maximize their profits, disregarding the fact that it steals the work from many artists who did not even consent to their work being used. They simply see it as a means to an end, ignoring the entire creative process and the beauty of human expression. The same goes for other forms of generative AI. Many of our voices have become drowned out by algorithms and artificial intelligence because, as the CEO of Open AI said, “Everyone is looking for the hack, the secret to success without hard work.” The profit motive is a powerful one, and it is at work to diminish people’s humanity to promote the superficial.

Our society is so obsessed with success and achievement that people lose sight of what actually matters. We are all on this pale blue dot for one reason–to live. Passion and success are by no means bad things, but should they be our reason for living? How can we see past the things that the entire world gives so much meaning? My experience has taught me that we overcome “only when a love of man overcomes the idolatrous worship of things by man” (Students for a Democratic Society). We need to see ourselves outside of materialistic things like wealth, success, status, and prestige. When we take the time to learn other people’s stories, we can start seeing past the superficial. When we share our stories, we come to realize many things about ourselves and the world around us. We are humans, and we all have our own story.

Life is a blank page, and we are the artists. Nothing should be more exciting than that.

Works Cited

Monbiot, George. ‘Neoliberalism - the ideology at the root of our problems.’ The Guardian. Friday 15 Apr 2016.

Requiem for the American Dream. Hutchinson, Peter, Nyks, Kelly, Scott, Jard. P., 2015, Documentary Film

Placido, Dani Di. “The Problem with AI-Generated Art, Explained.” Forbes, Forbes Magazine, 9 May 2024.

“Sam Altman Quotes.” Sam Altman – Everyone Is Looking for the Hack, the Secret To..., www.quote.cc/quotes/81412#google_vignette. Accessed 22 Mar. 2025.

Students for a Democratic Society (U.S.). The Port Huron Statement (1962). Chicago, Ill. :C.H. Kerr, 1990.