I already had been trying to re-brand myself - after doing pet portraits for 15 years, 7 years of daily creating inside that, I had long been ready for a change. And I had been suffering from creative burnout for over a year - I desperately needed to mix things up.
But I was clueless where to turn. My daily painting practice involved such an intensive focus on producing, and I hadn't built in much time for introspection. That was the first change - to give myself permission to slow down and stop focusing on the painting count and start focusing on the paintings' integrity.
Extensive journaling, both visual and written, and many conversations with other creatives guided me. I came to recognize an interest in painting my own life experiences. I began sifting through emotions, relating them to objects and colors and built a visual vocabulary of symbolic content. I threw away the conventions of literal space, and treated my visceral reactions as valid content to fill the painting's surface.
Which is where this painting came from. It began with the death of my maternal grandmother, who I loved fiercely and was blessed to have in my life until my mid-40s. Then within the span of 18 months I lost other pivotal people in my life: my mentor, a dear friend, one of my teenager's friends, my other grandmother, a friend's little son, a beautiful parent and friend, the magical parents of my childhood bestie, my father in law, my son's second mother. I was reeling from one loss to the next.
There was an ice storm one evening while I was at a funeral home. When I stepped outside into the night, the cool air soothed my heart - cradeled it gently and for the first time in a long while I felt safe. Then I heard music of the most delightful sort, almost like fairy chimes. I looked up to find myself underneath an ice encased crabapple tree, it's delicate branches singing as they gently shifted about, all brilliantly lit by a full moon. There were fairies there, dancing on the glass covered limbs, flashing about. And I heard my friend, the one who would be buried the following day, whisper. All is fine. All is fine. And the fairies continued to skip about and the cool air traveled into my lungs and heart.
That moment was pivotal - My story wasn't about what had happened to me - it was about what I was doing while things were happening to me. And what was to happen in the future. And I needed to make paintings about this.
All those years of daily painting were not going to waste - I knew how to draw, I knew how to capture the nuance of a gesture, I knew how to paint eyes that follow the viewer about. All that was left was learning how to listen to my emotions and paint an authentic response.
It's been tremendously challenging, but also intensely rewarding, this new direction. I am learning to speak through my brushes. To not apologize for myself. To live with intention and to honor my instinct. To commit to making art, whether it be good or bad, but mostly, just to show up.
And to not go gentle into that good night.
Here's the link to a photo essay of my Kentucky Derby journey, in case you missed it yesterday.Also, another link to Monday's post about my artistic growth.Here's Tuesday's post and my childhood passion for Walter Farley books.Yesterday's post about my Grandpa.
Comments
Post a Comment