December 15, 2018 - A Brief, Quiet Respite
(art installation: Yayoi Kusama, Infinity Mirrored Room—The Souls of Millions of Light Years Away, 2013)
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To be uninhibited by language, by the obstacle of stringing together words and phrases in order to achieve a satisfying degree of expression . . .
Painting had erased the tension I too often felt marred my flow of expression--the tension between the initial moment of feeling and the goal of articulating it. There seemed to be these unidentifiable words murmuring just below the surface, waiting to be delivered in writing. As a result, my external attempts to translate the internal in its most unadulterated form met a great deal of challenges and seemed overreaching on most days.
However, painting was the process that allowed for unobstructed first strokes and fluidity. It allowed for immediate expression without the immediate need for words. Painting transformed the poems of my soul into raw, honest, physical entities that could be shared with an audience. They were my wildlands.
However, painting was the process that allowed for unobstructed first strokes and fluidity. It allowed for immediate expression without the immediate need for words. Painting transformed the poems of my soul into raw, honest, physical entities that could be shared with an audience. They were my wildlands.
Painting provided more than just a means to organic expression; it gave me purpose, made me resolute. It set a path that I believed I could follow until dust to dust.
But somewhere in the recesses of 2018 and 2019, my compass stopped working. Eventually, I let it slip between my fingers. Maybe I abandoned it. Regardless of what exactly, everything came to a grinding halt last spring.
But somewhere in the recesses of 2018 and 2019, my compass stopped working. Eventually, I let it slip between my fingers. Maybe I abandoned it. Regardless of what exactly, everything came to a grinding halt last spring.
You see, trauma holds the power to change everything, including the parts of us we work to sustain and keep engaged through all the years that matter. When the trauma is deep enough within the psyche and pierces the spirit we once believed to be indomitable, it is only a matter of time before the small crack becomes a loud shatter.
I do not know a lot at the moment other than I have lost my strongest sense of self, truth, trust, and purpose. I do not recognize the person who now greets me at each reflection: withdrawn, uninspired, burdened with experiences and trauma she wishes she could erase. To be left meaningless and questioning God is a heaviness I have had to carry quietly.
Yet, even as I am feeling the brunt of a fractured existence, I cannot deny there is a speck of brilliance present--a still, small voice that continues to encourage me to defy the odds. Like the very stars that dot the night sky, the very bodies that bring respite in chaos, it tells me a story of profound beauty in the seemingly endless darkness.
“In spite of everything, I shall rise again; I will take up my pencil, which I have forsaken in my great discouragement, and I will go on with my drawing.” - Vincent van Gogh
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