Immaculate Conception

by Ling Ling Huang

Anyone who got too close was in danger of falling into her orbit. Or maybe I was just so insecure that anyone with a strong sense of identity could destabilize me.

had nothing to offer compared to my colleagues. No matter how much I searched for a self, my works were always deemed too reminiscent of already existing pieces. As a fringe kid, I was unavoidably ignorant of so many artists and pieces, and that ignorance was now on full display. It’d almost be preferable to plagiarize rather than unknowingly replicate a familiar idea, with less skill. Even when I did manage to make something somewhat original, it wasn’t interesting.

Since I would no longer create, my job now was to consume.

It seemed like the only power I had in the world was this: that I could withhold myself from someone who wanted to see me, even though I desperately wanted to see her, too.

I’m repulsed by his display, yet jealous that he’s able to feel so deeply and so publicly. I’ve always wondered if my aversion to this kind of performance is why I’ve never been a good enough artist. I hold back, possessed by self-consciousness, which erects a barrier between me and my audience. But when have women been allowed to be hysterical? Especially in public?

Never have I felt more of a dearth of creativity than when I am alone with my children and they ask me to play with them. How? With what? Is my inability to play related to my inability to be a great artist?