• 12 May 2017
  • Coordinator

I wouldn't bring the darkness you carry, closer to your eyes.
I wouldn't tug at your fingers--to change your grasp.
You--as you are now--
is all I know--
and all that ever...

Back when I first started painting, I read that no matter what an artist creates--the true self is revealed. This thought... horrified me. Absolutely, and completely--horrified me-
Would my painting show how many times I'd been called stupid?
Would my paintings show how much one word in my defense, would have changed EVERYTHING.
Would my paintings show how much I really wanted, to be wanted.

So for the first month I painted, I painted what I thought others would paint.
That way no one would see anything.
I tried painting a bowl--that looked like a bowl, a tree that looked like a tree--and if I was really lucky... a person that looked like a person. I was SO PROUD when I painted discernible things/objects/settings, but the one thing these paintings had in common: they had absolutely... NO LIFE IN THEM. Nada. Zip--no life--energy at all emanated from them, and it was because, quite simply, I WASN'T IN THEM. When people saw those paintings--they knew they weren't up to par, because people know inauthenticity when they see it. I knew they weren't good; I knew they were safe--sterile--boring.
Exactly the opposite of me.

To be continued