A Love Letter to the Middle Child

My mum is a middle child and so am I. Both of us are one of three, kept company by a brother on either side. Being the kind of child who subconsciously aspired to have a life just like my parents, I believed I’d have three children too. To me, three was obviously the best, the magic number because, with three, there is this perfect, cosy place in the middle. Safe and secure with padding on either side. The ham, cheese or egg mayo of the sandwich. Of course, future-me wouldn’t admit to having a favourite child of my own but, privately and intuitively, I just knew: my middle child would always take first place.

Middle children get a bad rap and are known to be massive attention seekers. I for one certainly relate to ‘middle child syndrome’: middle-born children who feel (and maybe are) neglected by their parents and are therefore desperate to gather any crumbs of attention that might come their way. But despite being neglected, or maybe because of it, I am reassured that so-called ‘middles’ are apparently more interested in concepts like justice over prestige or power. It’s really no surprise when we’ve had to contend with the prestige of the oldest child and the powerful charm of the youngest.

I’d been all set to carry on the matrilineal family tradition into a third generation and, fingers crossed, get a nice boy-girl-boy trio of my own. But, as I raced towards my thirties, I realised that I still rented a one-bed flat and the mere idea of giving birth made me need to have a lie down and press a wet-paper-towel dramatically to my forehead. So, I thought I should reassess and sensibly lower the number of possible future children to a maximum of two. And I’m not the only one. Most of my friends aren’t having children yet and several don’t plan to. I checked the official stats online and in 2021 the Total Fertility Rate was 1.61 children per woman in England and Wales, way down from the baby boomer days of 2.93 in 1964.

I felt sick. Did this mean middle children were going to become extinct? Here, in the UK?

I’m quite protective over ‘the middle’. Back when I was small, I used to argue with my two friends Chloe and Ezra over who got to be at the centre of our three whenever we had to queue up or sit down. And surely everyone wants to occupy the middle seats of the table at a restaurant? But more generally, the middle’s often seen as a bad place to be: middle-of-the-road, middle age, middle management and now, in Gen-Z parlance, simply ‘mid’. Something that is in the middle is often thought to have less character, less conviction and generally be less interesting.

This problem affects artists too. Don’t get me wrong, most so-called emerging artists have a tough time getting even the most precarious of footholds on the ladder, but for those that do, they are perceived as exciting newcomers. They have been ‘discovered’, they are the youngest person to have work acquired into the collection, they are fresh, they are 30-under-30, and everybody wants to be along for the ride. Despite being young, in some ways they embody the oldest child: first to find success, ambitious, confident high achievers. Children who ostensibly choose to spend more time with the ‘adults’ than people their own age.

Then there is the older generation of artists. These are definitely over 60 but, preferably, really really old – like, over 85 is the best.[1] They have been (re)discovered, they are a grafter, they never once stopped even though few believed in them, and now they have a show at the Serpentine. In only a few years time, the gallery’s artistic director, Hans Ulrich Obrist, will be posting on Instagram to announce the artist’s death with a picture of them together and an obscure message written on the back of a napkin.

Or maybe our elderly artist was successful when they were younger but we forgot about them and now it’s quite interesting – especially for the press team – if we make amends. We all agree it’s the right thing to do. And, not to be crude but, I think sometimes this works even better if they are already dead: ‘they were ahead of their time’, we might say. I think the older artist who finds success is a bit like the youngest child. They are often seen as cute and loveable, or else more than a little cantankerous; we don’t always take them seriously but we have to let them get their own way now because it makes us feel bad if we don’t – especially as we can see how we were too harsh with our other children, and isn’t this the chance to make up for it?

So what about the ‘middle children’ of artists – those aged between about 40 and 60? It seems they might suffer the same kind of neglect as other middles.[2] There is generally a lack of support and specific opportunities for this age group, whose careers as artists are often not yet financially sustainable and who need the continued support that many schemes for emerging artists fail to offer. This is an age where many artists have become care-givers; supporting children or parents. Opportunities such as artist residencies, as well as the relentless onslaught of art events and openings, aren’t often geared up for people who might need to do the school run or make sure their family is fed. Women fare especially badly during this period of their life and career, as they statistically bear the brunt of childcare responsibilities and the art market still favours art by men.

Middle age can also be an in-between phase, seemingly neither new-and-exciting or old-and-established, the perfect recipe for a mid-life crisis. Imagine: ‘the 45-year old’s third solo show’; ‘the author’s fourth best-selling book’; ‘the hard work before the public outcome’; ‘a vague concept liable to change’. No-one’s typing in their card number and verifying their purchase via banking app for that.

The disdain for the middle is not limited to human lifespans. Take a look at European history: the Middle Ages were popularly referred to as the Dark Ages for centuries. I was certainly taught to understand them as an era where people sat around just mourning the fall of the Roman Empire (if they were even aware that it had happened) and waiting for the Renaissance to begin.

But really, being in the middle need not mean mediocre, ordinary or unimaginative. Being in between is not just about waiting, to arrive, to blossom. It’s a time of transformation, of becoming, of change. Unlike the oldest and youngest children, whose positions in the family make-up are quite stable, the middle child makes the radical shift from youngest child to the fairly undefined status of ‘middle’. Studies suggest middle children are flexible, having to adapt to a new reality. And isn’t transformation the nexus of creativity? I mean, I’m not really saying that being in the middle is better than being at the edge. The edge has its place, and it can be interesting to see where ideas go when pushed to their extremes. It’s just that the middle has its own values that we don’t talk about and, as a middle child, I’d argue that maybe Goldilocks had it right when she tried baby bear’s porridge and found it wasn’t too hot or too cold but ‘just right’.

[1] This article by Eliza Goodpasture suggests that commercial galleries might be keen to represent older women artists so that, when they die, the galleries can acquire the artist’s estate. https://plastermagazine.com/articles/older-female-artists-are-suddenly-getting-the-spotlight-should-we-be-cynical/

[2] See these articles: https://artreview.com/contemporary-arts-midlife-crisis/ and https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-women-artists-survive-challenges-mid-career-stagnation