 I've been re-reading a lot of my personal journal entries from 2020 and most of them start with or include a phrase that says something along the lines of "I want to disappear." What a mood that is. And so I disappeared into my art. I felt guilty for a nanosecond about my limited publishing this year, because I had bigger things to feel guilty about. Like my ability to teach and meet the needs of my students. That feeling was endless and debilitating. I also grappled with constant shame and questioning about my artistic voice and purpose. I felt (still feel?) shame in my existence and I triple guess everything that I want to say because it all sounds commonplace or it might get me in trouble. I basically talked myself into submission. I told myself my words didn't matter and so that's how the cookie crumbled. I wrote less and painted more. There are worse things. I was happy to give the megaphone to the colours on my easel. Boy, did they speak and am I ever grateful that I have people who want to listen. The English teacher in me hates that this is true, but sometimes words actually can't say what needs to be said; especially in a profession where speaking up or having opinions can often backfire on you. Imagine working in an environment where everyone always tells you to be quite? Alright, so no words allowed. But paint? Let's go! I can just hide all of my rants and opinions in colours, brush strokes, and textures. The only clue I (sometimes) provide is an abstract title that can be interpreted in a plethora of ways and VOILA! On that note, maybe I've said too much...  Alive (SOLD) |
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