BY CHANTAL NGUYEN
It was the final minute of the final movement. “All or nothing, now or never!” I thought. The double stops, the breathless string crossings, the leap of faith to the high note on the precipice, and the dive to sonic depths. Every breath was heady and red, like varnish and rosin, and my heart hammered wildly through my instrument’s timber body. The last note sprang up and I drew out its deep, sweet warmth; heard the final chord blaze in the air and gently fade.
The accompanist lowered her hands and looked up at me. I was ablaze, but somehow managed a small smile and lowered my bow arm. It was over.
I didn’t know it then, but that concerto was my final music exam. Less than a year later, I also made the difficult decision to stop full-time ballet training. My friends continued their music degrees or progressed to overseas ballet schools, but I left to travel until I could begin again at law school.
As much as I’d loved the arts, I’d recognised the professional artist’s life wasn’t mine to have.
The general assumption was that once you left the vocational arts pathway for a “normal job”, you gave up the arts and moved on. After all, there was no obvious place for people like me and, though I was only in my late teens, I now felt terribly washed-up. It was “all or nothing, now or never”, but this time I assumed it was final.
It wasn’t.
Eight years later, I helped found an orchestra and began playing again. Then I started writing internationally as a ballet critic and began dancing again. And in the meantime, I’d done some deeply fulfilling things with that law degree.
Along the way, I met other “normal job” professionals with artistic pasts who’d reached the same junction as me and given up the arts completely. The “all or nothing, now or never” mentality was clearly widespread. But was it accurate? And why had we accepted it so unquestioningly?
As the arts began returning to my life, I rethought the dominant narratives. Here’s what I learnt.
1. You’re not a failure or traitor for quitting
Feelings of failure, guilt, uncertainty, or FOMO often accompany a decision to quit the arts. And in my case, and some of my friends’, these feelings haunted for years. Deep down most of us missed the arts, but couldn’t embrace it again without coming to terms with our pasts.
As young artists we were told to “follow our passions”, “work for our dreams”, and “sacrifice at all costs”. For many years, I wondered unforgivingly if I’d given up too easily or “sold out”. But the expectation to continue no matter what doesn’t consider the full picture. Yes, you need dedication and talent. But what’s less glorified is the need for understanding mentors and parents, finances, opportunities, stamina, and mental, emotional, and physical health.
What young person has control of all those things?
Accepting this was key to making new, meaningful artistic contributions.
2. Besides, you don’t actually have to quit
It doesn’t have to be “all or nothing”. Just because you couldn’t give everything doesn’t mean you can’t give anything. As I found out, it’s possible to pursue another career and take the arts with you. This can be harder because there are no set pathways or clear models. You have to experiment and find the opportunities and commitment levels that work for you (and your other career).
But the flip side is that there’s less pressure, because the journey becomes more truly yours.
3. You choose your own timeline
It doesn’t have to be “now or never”. Our youth-obsessed culture often makes us feel that if you haven’t “made it” by a certain age, you may as well give up. That’s why I, and others like me, assumed we’d missed the boat completely. In the pressured rush to be awesome, we forgot that artistic growth can be a marathon, not a sprint.
I was inspired by the legendary American photographer Roger Ballen, who’d briefly attended arts school before becoming a geologist. He took photographs his whole life, but didn’t consider himself an artist until his 40s, left geology only in his 50s, and directed his first viral music video in his 60s. When asked for advice by his students about becoming an artist, he reported himself as saying: “The best suggestion I can offer is have another career. It’s a very hard profession to make a living in and you need time to germinate.”
Ballen’s wisdom resonated with me. I’m not suggesting you go “germinate” in an office cubicle for a few decades. But if you’ve left the usual track or feel you’ve fallen behind, remember you’ll always have things to say, and therefore art to contribute.
4. You never stop growing, even when you think you’ve quit
Imagine my shock when after years away from violin, I returned to find my musicality had somehow improved. Sure, it took about six months to get my technique back to a functional standard. But I realised all the growing and maturing I’d done as a human in that time had found its way into my sound. It was richer and more complex than ever before. The experience of playing was fuller too, because I knew more deeply and humanly what the music meant. I had more to give.
5. If others see boundaries, ignore them
For many years, I believed the common perception that a person was either an artist or not.
The unspoken message in the studio was that a good artist was inherently creative and emotionally expressive. The message at law school and in the courtroom was that a good lawyer was fundamentally incisive and coolly objective. Was it even possible to be both? Didn’t ability in one compromise you in the other?
Colleagues on both sides asked these questions. It was this dichotomy that had forced me to choose as a teenager, and it continued into my adult life.
But gradually I found older friends who became my examples. They’d achieved in non-artistic professional fields but were avid artists as well. One was an accomplished oboist, anthropologist, and lawyer. The other was a pioneering mechatronics academic, violinist, chorister, and luthier. Both refused to see boundaries or limitations in themselves where others did. Striving in the arts and their other chosen field was congruent, because both were part of the bigger picture of living an enriched life.
What this ultimately looks like is different for everybody
But if, like me, you feel you somehow fell off the artist’s typical track, don’t be discouraged. There’s a path for you out there, even if you have to create it yourself – and it’s pretty fantastic.
What does this story mean to you?
Thanks for supporting Chantal Nguyen!
Featured image by Larisa Birta via Unsplash.
