Sometimes, I see images that connect directly with my gut and make me want to paint, and this was one of them.
Today after work, I felt compelled to paint. It was a typical Monday: lots of stress and angst, compounded by an unexpected visit to a therapist (recommended by a friend) who had a cancellation. He told me that I put up too defenses to ever connect with myself, that everything I do is a form of presenting and shielding my inner three year old from danger.
Blogging like this, and painting, and sharing with others: all of this is a form of presenting, shielding, blocking people off from getting to me. Don’t write about things, he said. Stop presenting everything. He suggested I come back in a few months’ time when I have learned to trust someone.
What do you do when someone tells you that, that you are beyond help?
In my case, I paint. I’ve painted my way through a panic attack before. So, this time, I painted through the revelation that I am hopelessly fucked up and always will be.
Here is the first sketch:
Then the second iteration:
And finally, this.
I filled it with statements like “I am in the stars”, “I am life” and “I am the electricity that traces the outline of your cells”. Who the “I” is I don’t know, but it’s interesting that this is what I felt compelled to write without thinking too much about it. I don’t particularly like it. Not this version anyway; it doesn’t connect with me in the solar plexus as I was hoping it would. I think I need a different shade of red, and the black needs to be deeper.
Maybe tomorrow I will try again.