Today is another collaborative audio post between MAKING and Serenity Never on the subject of CREATIVE ENVY, BABY. Kat and Nora had a conversation in which we discussed envy, particularly in the context of creativity, and how the feelings surrounding it can serve as motivators rather than hindrances. We also discussed the importance of mentorship, the pressure of talent, the impact of time and resources on creative pursuits, and the significance of community in the artistic process. Check out our previous conversation about sharing work here.
From Kat:
Most of my earliest memories of feeling envious take place in a theater. I was a theater nerd, surprise surprise. I started performing at age ten; maybe my parents got sick of me forcing their friends to watch my original choreography of Cats which co-starred my sister, who I also forced to perform it. I recall my first audition for the musical Oliver!, which I did not get, though I got a callback, which I was told was “really good”. I prepared for each subsequent audition with the seriousness of a Broadway veteran. Hours upon hours spent in voice lessons, dance classes, and acting workshops. It was in these hallowed studios, lined with mirrors and grey vinyl flooring, that I witnessed the talents of other kids my age and began the lifelong practice of self-flagellation and comparison. When someone had Talent with a capital T—whether they could belt a high note, kick their face with their leg, or cry on cue—I’d feel a searing heat in the center of my chest that rose up to my pale cheeks. It’s not that I didn’t want them to have their talent, I just wanted to have a taste of it too! It was both my envy and passion for performing that fueled many years of hard work and overachieving, from lead roles in community theater to a degree in drama at a top university to working as a professional actor.
As I grew older and shifted to becoming a filmmaker primarily, the envy followed me, but it now felt like a dull ache in my stomach or a sinking in my heart. Years of meditation and spiritual practice had softened the envy, but had also covered it with a veil of forced gratitude and enthusiasm. My inner voice shouted, Really not cool of you to be envious! It’s embarrassing! Be gracious and supportive like when someone loses an Oscar and they cut to their reaction!. One thing I’ve learned about envy is: it’s probably showing us a part of ourselves that needs attention. My envy highlights my desires, oftentimes ones I didn’t know I had. When I embrace these parts of myself, I don’t feel as much shame and it inspires me to make work rather than fixate on what I’m lacking. Then, I can actually be supportive of others, because I’m not harboring some secret resentments about them or their work. Or if I am, at least I’m honest about it. Enjoy this vulnerable and slightly embarrassing conversation between me and Nora, and don’t you dare judge us! We’re only human.
x kat
From Nora:
Ordinary envy is wont to cackle when the envied hen has laid an egg, thereby relieving itself and becoming milder. But there is a yet deeper envy that in such a case becomes dead silent, desiring that every mouth should be sealed and always more and more angry because this desire is not gratified. Silent envy grows in silence.
Nietzsche, Human, All-Too-Human
I am not ashamed to admit that I’m envious of what others have as it relates to art and artmaking, embarrassing as it may be. It’s not that cool to admit you’re envious, and it wouldn’t make many “in” lists for 2025, but it is a doorway. For me, the door usually leads to the truth of what I actually want rather than what I think I want (something I get confused about a lot). Part of the reason shame is attached to envy is because it is one of the seven deadly sins in Christianity. I prefer to prescribe to Nietzsche’s take on the matter, who considered it nothing to be ashamed of — in his view, it is humiliating to admit that which you so deeply desire, but it is also natural. I also like taking advice from a man who had the guts to die a madman.
The working definition of envy — as we define it in this conversation — is coveting what someone else has. I’ve wanted to be an artist and filmmaker for as long as I can remember though I have rarely let myself claim that ambition. So naturally, I’ve often coveted what many have dared to do that I couldn’t let myself for whatever reason (low self esteem, distraction, procrastination, lack of access). I don’t envy material largesse (at least not with the laser focus I reserve for talent or creativity); I’m not particularly interested in big shiny things or flashy cars. But plop me down in a cinema and show me a good film or ply me with a good book and I’ll froth with envy.
Envy is a dirty little word that rarely enters the conversation amongst your most polite friends. It’s not virtuous to be envious, it’s not cool to covet what someone else has, to wish it were you. Yet it seems like all of us have it to some degree. A few years ago, a friend told me that she found it so admirable that I didn’t really seem to be jealous of anyone, and I nodded because, clearly, I’d fooled everyone. Didn’t she know I was rabidly envious of what almost everyone I knew had? It was a dark time in my life, and I felt increasingly ‘behind’ the timeline. Perhaps I’ve changed, but I feel less like that now. Or maybe I’m finally just constructing a life that is pointed toward what’s for me rather than what I think I should be doing. Either way, I like using envy as a tool to point me to what I know I want and have yet to achieve. As we talk about in this conversation, it also comes from an extreme fandom for music, film, art, and literature ever since I was a kid. I just really, really love people who make stuff.
If envy is the doorway that shows me what I’m not doing, what I’m not practicing, and what I’m not letting myself get good at, then I’ll embrace it for what it is. It shows me where I need to go. In this conversation, Kat and I try to be as honest (maybe a little too honest?) about what creative envy means to us. Amidst the (attempt at) honesty, I also tell a bald-faced lie (by accident) about going to Sylvia Young Theatre School, it was Italia Conti, and I only lasted a couple of months.
Nora x
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