We were lucky to catch up with Cat London recently and have shared our conversation below.

Cat, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today Are you happier as a creative? Do you sometimes think about what it would be like to just have a regular job? Can you talk to us about how you think through these emotions?

All the time. The greatest risk I’ve ever taken was not allowing myself the stability of a day job. I wasn’t conditioned for the highs and lows of the art industry, I don’t know if many of us are. So my nervous system had been taxed for years finding any semblance of footing. I finally realized that “footing” is a perspective, and if you aren’t realistic with yourself, you could be caught in a self-criticism loop forever. For me, I wasn’t allowing myself to feel successful as an artist until I met my expectations. And fulfilling set expectations is like trying to correctly guess the exact colors of Tuesday’s sunset.

I was doing okay as an artist, but that wasn’t good enough for the stability I craved. I also think I wanted the job security of fame to vet my belonging in the arts. Joy was fleeting because taking my flowers didn’t feel safe. The idea of momentum felt safe. Living for the future felt safe. I was succeeding here and there, but never gave myself credit or pause. I felt if I lost momentum, I would never be able to sustain art as a living. It seemed like nothing was catching its groove. I felt exhaustion instead of excitement. Thankfully gratitude practices, therapy, and a lot of spiritual work unwound much of that tightness. I’m now very interested in befriending the natural artist in me, the one who feels easy, whole, and doesn’t have to carry her work as her identity. Now I want to live my art as a response to an invitation to play. I no longer prove my belonging to art. I know my true north, and I’ve been able to attract a life where I can sustain a living as a singer and actor both emotionally and financially. But boy, were there moments of feeling like I was disappointing art.

I feared opportunity wouldn’t be sustainable, because well, sometimes it wasn’t. I’d do a cool thing or almost do a cool thing, and then boom, dead-end. Sometimes I’d do a cool thing and boom, healthy relationship! But those dead-ends were loud. Louuuud. I thought I was resilient, but I was becoming uninspired. I started to feel like maybe I was wrong for art. I was hunting instead of discovering, bracing instead of trusting, guarding instead of letting, panicking instead of celebrating. I learned to keep my hopes down in a lot situations. I was also conditioned by a 9-5 mentality where I could set out to find the promise of a singular place of belonging, build rapport, build a resume, and consistently support my family for at least a good while. Sounds like momentum! But this artsy-night-industry rarely offered consistency or job security (There goes my momentum equation!). By training myself to scan for the future, I thought I was avoiding the feeling of disappointment. Turns out I was just scared that I wouldn’t be strong enough to adapt to what was in front of me. Deep down I knew art wasn’t a 9 to 5, I knew art offered a whole different adventure than from the one I was conditioned to expect.But I didn’t trust my joy or resilience, which created resistance. I was afraid to fail at succeeding in art, because then I’d have to face not doing art “full-time” and potentially having to leave the industry.

I eventually found ways to accept the beauty of playfulness and art beyond the “importance” of the industry. Art’s not an exclusive club or job. Art is the fabric of who we are before worry or grief teases its constitution. You’re always an artist. And am I happy as an artist? Yes. Very much. I’m happy I don’t question my inner child anymore. She feels so allowed now. In my happiness practice I let myself quietly register moments that feel right, telling myself, “This feels like alignment, not momentum.” That was important for me. Finding alignment was me finally setting free the desire to fall in love with the expression I have for life itself.

Great, appreciate you sharing that with us. Before we ask you to share more of your insights, can you take a moment to introduce yourself and how you got to where you are today to our readers.

I’m a poet, actor, songwriter, improv comedian, and musician. My band performs its music live at concert halls and small tours. We love recording, releasing music, and filming fun projects. My improv comedy troupe tours all over, but over the years we really found a home in Philadelphia. I perform as a singer and am the Communications Director for The Ever After Band, a luxury event band for weddings and corporate celebrations. I’m an actor as well, so I’ve done a myriad of on-camera and stage works. I love connecting with my social media followers with poetry and sketch-comedy, and I love connecting with the community by teaching improv comedy at art houses.

I love inviting people to play. If people are attracted to my practice or my performances, it’s because they have a deep knowing or longing to pay attention to their inner child. I love to show people what’s possible by exploring how my body swallows the world. I love how songs were my out-loud place to be angry, sad, wishful, confused, or in love. I love how I could let my body respond to rhythm and lyrics and call it dance. I loved how we could tell everyone it was going to be okay through a play.

I think I’m most proud of sticking with it all and never letting any of the disciplines fall to the wayside. That was always a problem for me, feeling like I needed to pick one. I remember sitting on my high-school’s stage with two of my musical theatre friends after the cast had left, ghost light buzzing behind us, and I said, “I’m going to do this forever.” Something about performance was finally articulating a feeling of purpose through me.

My background is in musical theatre and dance. I expanded into film acting and honed my musicianship as a singer in live bands. I loved school choir, band, and musicals. I began writing songs on my guitar in my bedroom in my teens. My family was artistic. My aunt was a professional fine artist and my uncles were very much in love with music performance. My parents encouraged my painting and crafting, and as a kid I would have told you I was going to be an artist (painter) when I grew up. Little did I know “artist” was going to mean several things as years progressed. I remember making up parodies to songs as my parents filmed me dancing in the living room. I remember ballet class, and canvases. I remember dress-up and performing made-up plays at home. I was so happy when I was creating. And I was so happy seeing other people create. I love that playground. I love feeling my heart smile, knowing we are co-creating something wildly fun and new. It’s so fresh, it feels like air.

How can we best help foster a strong, supportive environment for artists and creatives?

I think we can start energizing creative ecosystems by committing to the bit. That’s my main mission, “committing to the bit.” Life is a bit, like a sketch, or sandbox; a massively chaotic and cool bit. And I think in order to create meaning, we have to radically accept that we matter. In order for the play to flow, we need to trust our beginnings. When we bring that energy of awareness to the sandbox, the most productive and magical things occur. Things like understanding, patience, helpfulness, expression, comaraderie, care, sentiment, tenderness, nostalgia, and knowing. Knowing is like the ultimate trust, and I think if we all commit to that sandbox, we would trust the art inside all of us a lot more.

Saying “yes” to our very-much-alive softness, collaboration, our smile, effortless vulnerability, freeness, and togetherness would allow intimacy around what’s actually happening inside our bodies at concerts, plays, performances, shows, and museums. We wouldn’t be able to get enough of it. We would name it as essential. Witnessing performance would be a priority. Language around arts conversations would move away from desperation and hierarchy and turn into something as nourishing as…well…the art itself.

Art is a feeling of belonging. Art shows you you aren’t alone. That’s essential. Demystifying art industries and normalizing art as an essential part of life is a great bit. Committing to it could make arts funding an easier conversation; a no-brainer. Remembering our contributions matter, remembering the aliveness in play. I think we could nourish one heck of an ecosystem.

We often hear about learning lessons – but just as important is unlearning lessons. Have you ever had to unlearn a lesson?

When entering the performance industry, I think I believed in some sort of divine intervention or mathematics for success and worth. I didn’t have a mentor to talk to me about authenticity, eggs in baskets, burn-out, and business. I knew expression was the priority (always), but I also believed in some right recipe. Like a resume that would emulate a day-job to get my life on track for consistent money, or better yet, ensure I became an undeniably vetted celebrity. Something that would make agents say yes, deals get signed, venues say sure. Something safe. The more time I spent in the performance industry, the more I realized money and jobs weren’t consistent. And I wasn’t adapting because I was hardwired to believe consistent money meant safety, realness, worth, and allowance to keep going. After a while, art felt like a constant pitch, and my worth became tied to who was buying my art, and worse, who wasn’t.

What used to feel meant for me, now felt like a guessing game, and I became tired of trying. Fun became hope, and hope became some off-flavor of desperation. My mental health suffered, and I couldn’t figure out why things “weren’t working.” And because it “wasn’t working,” that threatened my dream of being allowed to be an artist. If it couldn’t sustain me as a career, then who was I? And because I never wanted art to be a tool for success, this discord threatened my belief that I was a safe space for art at all. And that broke me.

Art doesn’t want to “work” for something, it wants to be with you. Art is fun. So I met myself where I was. I stopped looking to the future and started existing in the now. I apologized to art, and it put its arm around me. It looked so much happier by my side instead of panting behind me as I frantically told it to keep up with my spaghetti-wall.

Art is my friend and I’m remembering what it feels like to lead with my heart again. I’m retraining what safety looks like. And I’m remembering what fun feels like.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.CatLondonMusic.com
• Instagram: @catlondonmusic
• Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@catlondonmusic720
• Other: Bandcamp:
  https://catlondon.bandcamp.com/

Image Credits

Charlotte Schweiger
Johnny Rodriguez
Third Coast Comedy