My Mother Taught Me That Art and Design Are Labor

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When I was about five years old, my mother bought my first set of crayons. It started with the 8-color pack. But as my skills and interest improved, I convinced her to buy the 24-pack. Then the 120-pack. But I pushed it when she found out I was using the space heater to melt and combine crayons together on my finger, so I could draw directly with my fingertip. One Christmas, my mother spoiled me rotten and filled the entire living room with toys. There was an easel, a jumbo pack of chalk, and a coloring book the size of a small dinner table.

When I was a pre-teen, my mom enrolled me in the local Boys & Girls Club for the summer program. She was tired of seeing me isolated to my neighborhood block and knew I needed to do something constructive. As we took a tour of the club, she said,

Look, Sela, they have an art room! You can take art classes here!

With the kind of glee, I could barely muster. I enjoyed drawing and understood color. But I wasn’t as excited about it as Mom. Eventually, I took to the art classes at that club because she was right. The room was big and quiet. I could be with other kids who liked quiet. The art teacher played classical music and set of still arrangements for us. In a city with frequent chaos, this place was a solace. One of those figure drawings I made really impressed my art teacher, and she entered it into a city-wide art competition. I didn’t win, but it was on display in the lobby of the Bradley Center in downtown Milwaukee. My mom and dad were so proud. We drove downtown, and they took a photo of me and my acknowledged drawing.

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My mother was my first investor, art dealer, labor advocate, and financial advisor.

When I got to middle school, I had an art teacher who was dope. Like, for real. My classmates and I joked that he must have smoked weed, which explained why he was so cool. When we questioned him, he barely refuted it. But he also taught us a few things. Namely to copyright, date, and sign our names on all our work, and how to draw patterns: cross-hatch, stippling, woodgrain. My mother saw what I was creating, and showed it her best friend Sheila. Sheila agreed to pay me $30 for a commissioned abstract piece, with various patterns inside the forms. Both my mom and Sheila still talk about that to this day.

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I didn't know I could assert my value that way. Because for my mom, it wasn't about the money. It was about fairness. And if someone is treating you unfairly, walk away.

When I was in high school, I was a dancer in a community theater production of African American music and performance that spanned from the Motherland through the 1980s. I was in the opening sequence of African dancers, and I closed as Michael Jackson in Thriller. We must have done over a dozen performances, for free. Months after production wrapped, we performers were once again tapped to do a one-time performance, except this time all performers 18 and older would get paid. It was something like $200, which was a lot for me at the time. Come rehearsal day, the director’s assistant made an announcement with a caveat about payment. All performers over 18 who were not in high school would get paid. This enraged both my parents, especially my mother. She knew how much time and energy I put into that show for free. At one point during a performance, I fell off the high platform off-stage and sustained a very serious injury. After my parents found out I wasn’t getting paid they said,

Stay home.

On show day, the director’s assistant called our home, begged me to come. I refused, as I had the support of my mom. They never paid me, and aside from a mutual apologia months later, I never saw anyone from that production again. But I learned a valuable lesson that day. I had never held out like that before. I didn’t know I could assert my value that way. Because for my mom, it wasn’t about the money. It was about fairness. And if someone is treating you unfairly, walk away.

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(My Mom) saw my financial value even when I couldn't see it in myself. ... And I'm better for it. I have earned more money than I ever thought I could if I'd simply settled for whatever someone could give me.

After I graduated from college, I was living on my own in Washington, D.C., one of the most expensive cities on the East Coast. I had grown up in a city where spending $600/month on rent was considered expensive. To live in a city that, in 2004, a condo in Dupont Circle went for $700,000 was considered affordable. I was completely out of my depth in determining what I should charge for my design work.

Right now I’m reading Mike Monteiro’s book, Design Is A Job, where he dedicates a good amount on making sure we as designers get paid. I really agree with his values, but Design Is A Job doesn’t really discuss knowing your worth in the marketplace, based on both the local cost of living and one’s personal desires.

But my mom does. We had a long, frank conversation about knowing my worth. She said,

Sela, where do you want to live? Don’t think, ‘what can I afford?’ Where do you want to live? Okay, how much does it cost to live there? Write that down. And you want to live well, right? You want to save money, right? Do you want to take a cab, go out with your friends, pay for a meal from time to time, right? Do you want to go on vacations? Write down how much you think that will cost you per month. Don’t short-change yourself. Now add tax. That’s how much you’re worth.

This was a sobering exercise. Not because my mother was harsh. But because she saw my financial value even when I couldn’t see it in myself. I carry that with me every time I negotiate my worth with anyone. And I’m better for it.I have earned more money than I ever thought I could if I’d simply settled for whatever someone could give me.

My mother was my first investor, art dealer, labor advocate, and financial advisor.

I don’t write a lot about my mother on this digital journal because our relationship is frankly very tense. It’s more Terms of Endearment than a Madea movie. Probably because mothers (and motherlike figures) tend to be more critical of their own daughters; seeing their own perceived faults (fearlessness, determination, a willingness to be unapologetic) and are afraid their little girls will be hurt or let down if everything doesn’t pan out perfectly. But I love my mom, and I want her and my readers to know that she has had the most lasting impact on how I approach my work as a professional. Have a healthy work ethic, and take pride in what you do. It doesn’t have to be for the most high-profile company you work for. It’s if they respect you. And if that stops, walk away. Invest in yourself, because you are worth it.