On Being the Daughter of a Failed Artist
My inheritance wasn’t connections or wisdom, it was a lesson in acceptance
My dad’s nickname for me is Peanut. I call him The Groundskeeper (he’s so good at home improvement projects). He’s been my dad for 28 years, but we’ve been friends for about three. When I moved back to my hometown of Los Angeles five years ago, our relationship tightened with weekly hangs, daily calls, even his version of memes (he uses photos of my dogs).
If anyone asks, which is surprisingly often, I say he’s retired. Two words, globally understood, realistic yet aspirational. To passersby, his day-to-day is that of a retired man. He goes to the gym, cleans the house, and engages in what seem to be hobbies. But in his mind, my dad isn’t retired — not even close. He’s between projects; he’s taking meetings; he’s putting the final touches on something big, but he can’t jinx it by telling me, or anyone. He’s always been superstitious. Underemployed would be an overstatement. He’s involuntarily unemployed, closing in on 60, and — decades deep, I feel fair saying — a failed artist.
Growing up in Los Angeles, it wasn’t too abnormal to have a parent who wore sweatpants and sneakers, a dad who didn’t own a briefcase or go into an office. My friends’ parents typically fell into one of two categories: the briefcase types and the Hollywood types, both successful to varying degrees in their respective fields. Some had parents who couldn’t relate at all to their artistic dreams and career endeavors; others had parents who had pursued art, succeeded, and were deep in their careers, with all the invaluable advice and connections that came along with that. I had a warped Venn Diagram of the two, the passion and interests of an artist without the guidance or the connections, my eyes open to the reality of what it looks like to fail, for better or for worse.
After high school, my dad, also a Los Angeles native, went to beauty school. Rather than work in a salon, he got as close to the movie business as he could, doing hair on set for TV and film. His career took him around the world, working on iconic films and meeting interesting people on both sides of the camera, stealing towels for me from the most beautiful hotels. But after 20 years, he’d had it. He was on set, but not doing what he wanted. He dreamed of filmmaking. Pulling every possible string, cashing in every favor he had banked, my dad got staffed to direct an episode of a television show. Not much happened from there: he’d land the occasional annual gig, but unfortunately, 15 years later, he still hasn’t found even a quarter of the success he’d had doing hair. And since he refuses to return to styling — or work any job outside of filmmaking — the pressure is on the rest of my family to carry the burden. His ego remains wildly unchecked; his bitterness and delusion have made him hard to work with and even be around socially for nearly everyone we know. And somehow, it’s only made us closer.
I think about my dad’s risky, unsuccessful pivot everyday. As a teenager, I wrote for music magazines and newspapers before going to college for journalism. Afterwards, I made my way to New York City (as one does) to pursue writing. I moonlighted as a freelance writer while working the reception desk at a spa, hesitant to take a full-time job outside of my desired field. I was broke. I worked at the spa from 9 a.m. to 8 p.m., napped on a massage table, then worked at a nightclub from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. I wrote while sitting at the spa desk or on my days off, but after a year and a half I was no closer to writing full-time. Was I delusional? I knew the industry had changed even in the four years I was studying, but if I were good enough, couldn’t I make it work? Wasn’t being broke worth it if I could call myself a writer for real? (P.S. No one is policing if you are “for real.”)
My dad’s career path showed me that it isn’t necessary to hold onto a goal that has proven unrealistic, and that ego and stubbornness doom you to fail.
I applied for a marketing job at a tech startup and was hired immediately. My life became easier within weeks. I made money, was what I called “creative-adjacent,” and found stability. But I felt like a quitter. I thought about my dad: If he wouldn’t give up on his dream, why was I so quick to? Unlike him, I had no kids, no mortgage. This was the time to take risks, not in your forties. But I couldn’t do it. I knew that if I valued my newfound stability, I’d have to adapt my dreams.
It’s been eight years, and I still wonder where I’d be today if I had held out, whether through stubbornness or self confidence. I could try to pivot to writing full time, but I’ve seen the landscape and the grass doesn’t look greener. Today I’m in a position to take the writing projects I want, on my own terms, because of the career I built on copywriting and other non-editorial work. I just turned in the manuscript for my first book, but when people ask what I do, I am quick to supplement “writer” with, “also copywriter.” My dad’s career path showed me that it isn’t necessary to hold onto a goal that has proven unrealistic, and that ego and stubbornness doom you to fail. Still, when I see my peers sticking to their guns — even the ones struggling — I wonder what my perspective would be had I not watched my worst career nightmare play out during those “you can do whatever you set your mind to” years.
My dad clings to my career and accomplishments as if they were his own. He is eager to give long-winded advice that is always dated and never relevant. And I not only listen to it but solicit it, engaging him in my process and trying to make him feel valued. I proofread his work, watch his videos, recommend books, have hour-long phone calls about what’s next. When I told him I wanted to say no to a salaried career opportunity in advertising to take a risk and finally pursue writing full time, he urged me not to. “If you wanted to be writing that much, you’d be writing that much,” he told me, clearly influenced by hindsight. It hurt, but it confirmed the doubts I already had. Why ruin a good thing? I took the job and quit in seven months, just to have the same debate with myself all over again. I’m in the middle of a reboot right now.
What he hasn’t realized is that his failure has a purpose, because it shaped who I am.
There are made-up rules about identity. To call yourself a New Yorker, you have to have lived there for seven years. Hallmark-inspired Instagram quotes remind us that anyone can be a father, but being a dad is a choice. But there are no rules about what qualifies you as an artist. No IMDB page requirements or gallery checklists. To be an artist, you just have to identify as one.
My dad knows this, it’s his entire identity. To admit defeat or give up would leave him without purpose. What he hasn’t realized is that his failure has a purpose, because it shaped who I am. Unknowingly, my dad has shown me what happens if it doesn’t work out. What if you have to find a way to be okay with what you have, and nothing else? This was my inheritance: not industry connections or the wisdom of experience, but a lesson in acceptance.
He might be a failed artist, but I haven’t even allowed myself to fail. I hope eventually, I’ll learn to make room for that — inspired by his choices, not in fear of repeating them.
