The arts sector is perniciously, demeaningly, inordinately fond of the adjective “emerging” — and I, for one, cannot stomach it.
It’s normally used to refer to artists who have not yet established themselves or who have not yet attained success. And you can see the problems with that immediately. Who gets to decide what constitutes being established, or what constitutes success? “Established” and “success” are almost always discreet synonyms for “making lots of money from your work”, or “getting funding for your work”, or “having working relationships with influential institutions.”
Anyone using it to refer to someone else ought to have their mouth washed out with soap. As much as I hate hearing someone use the word “emerging” to describe someone else, though, the absolute worst thing is when I hear (or read, in applications) someone describe themselves that way. It’s terrifying and depressing, the extent to which artists will absorb and make use of the very words the sector has implemented to keep them locked in a position of neediness and inferiority.
Whenever I’m in a situation where I hear someone thoughtlessly use the word “emerging” about themselves or someone else, I forcibly express my distaste for the term, and propose that the only thing that should ever be described as “emerging” is The Very Hungry Caterpillar out of his chrysalis.
I have always loved Eric Carle’s 1969 picture book — to the extent that, back in 1999/2000 when I was on my university placement year in eastern France and was teaching in four schools (with students aged from six to eighteen), I made my own version of it by hand, cutting pictures out of supermarket magazines to illustrate the weekday fruit episodes, and hand-drawing everything else (which pleases me no end, given the subject of my post two weeks ago…)
I got a year’s worth of classes out of it, covering everything from the butterfly’s life cycle to grammar points around use of prepositions and definite/indefinite articles, pluralisation of nouns and vocabulary for describing food and drinks.
I now own copies of TVHC in board book and hardback formats, complete with plush toy (who we named Gavin), and I also own it in a French translation, La chenille qui fait des trous, which translates most disappointingly as “The Caterpillar Who Makes Holes.” As if that were the caterpillar’s reason for being — or, I should probably say, his raison d’être.
I remembered, and was able to dig up, a screenshot of something I spotted being shared on Instagram a long time ago, which revealed a thrilling backstory of dispute and disagreement to the week of consumption that precedes the caterpillar’s blossoming into a butterfly:
Imagine my dismay, then, to learn just a few days ago (while researching this post), that the quote is, in fact, a fake. It comes from a 2015 April Fool’s post in The Paris Review. “It is a fictional interview,” the header tells us, “and intended purely as a parody. It is not intended to communicate any true or factual information, and is for entertainment purposes only.” Just goes to show that we should always take social media posts with a big pinch of salt.
But I think the interview, fabricated as it may be, does communicate some true or factual information, and it is this:
“The caterpillar is, after all, very hungry, as sometimes we all are. He has recognized an immense appetite within him and has indulged it, and the experience transforms him, betters him.”
And I’m not the only one who’s onboard with this. I also managed to retrieve another screenshot, also from Instagram, which is relevant to this thread — forgive my APPALLING attempts at anonymisation:
(Full marks to the person who posted this for nailing the positive, affirmative sense of “emerge”, here.)
Whatever kind of maker you are, I want to remind you that, like the caterpillar, you too can recognise the immense appetite within yourself and indulge it, by doing whatever your thing might be — writing, weaving, dancing, designing, planting, podcasting… Remember, there’s no publisher or comparable figure (real or invented) to curb that appetite or to make you feel sick about doing it.
Just like the caterpillar, the experience can be transformative for you, as well. (I’m not sold on the notion of “better”, though, which falls dangerously close to the arts sector use of “emergence” again, suggesting someone is bad, wrong or broken in the first place and is in need of some improvement.)
You’ll definitely “emerge” (in our positive, affirmative sense) as newly skilled, or rather, a bit more skilled than you were when you started. And it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, that you’re already beautiful. You don’t need a week of eating, a salad cleanse and a nap for that to be true.
You also, and this does deserve saying, don’t need anyone’s permission or approval, either — neither that of other artists, nor of the arts sector in general. Because if we waited for that… well… we would be stuck in our chrysalis, twiddling our antennae (or whatever else we have) for a very long time, wouldn’t we?
