Can art see you through pain?
Can art see you through pain and heartache?
13/08/16 20:44
This week has been a roller caster of emotions. Fear, sadness, anger, misunderstandings, darkness and numbness. Black clouds descending.
Somewhere along the way as I struggled to regain control, an angry fly stuck in life's sticky & treacherous web, I came across and bought a copy of Tracey Emin's ''Strangeland'' in a charity shop. I had read already read the book years ago but maybe because I am navigating such trouble waters and stumbling around muddy shores, this time around it felt incredibly comforting and I connected to it much more strongly. A powerful example of how writing and art can keep some of us out of the abyss. A reminder it is OK to cry, be loud, make a fool of yourself and feel like all you can do is curl up in bed and wait for the pain to stop. I also bought in the same shop a copy of ''Fear and loathing in Las Vegas''...bats, more bats.
My art is probably the only thing keeping me sane right now. The Good Samaritan on the line told me ''right now it must feel like a conspiracy''. By then I was sitting on the carpet, numb and beyond caring about anything. Yes, it did feel like that, a conspiracy to take everything from me.
But in the end, the easel is still there beckoning, quiet and non-judgemental. The only constant. Solid wood, impervious to the frailty of flesh and blood. Madening in its silence but strangely comforting. The canvas doesn't care, doesn't know. The paint is non-plussed and willing. And so I continue as if nothing had happened for a few blissful moments, lost in the gesture.
Somewhere along the way as I struggled to regain control, an angry fly stuck in life's sticky & treacherous web, I came across and bought a copy of Tracey Emin's ''Strangeland'' in a charity shop. I had read already read the book years ago but maybe because I am navigating such trouble waters and stumbling around muddy shores, this time around it felt incredibly comforting and I connected to it much more strongly. A powerful example of how writing and art can keep some of us out of the abyss. A reminder it is OK to cry, be loud, make a fool of yourself and feel like all you can do is curl up in bed and wait for the pain to stop. I also bought in the same shop a copy of ''Fear and loathing in Las Vegas''...bats, more bats.
My art is probably the only thing keeping me sane right now. The Good Samaritan on the line told me ''right now it must feel like a conspiracy''. By then I was sitting on the carpet, numb and beyond caring about anything. Yes, it did feel like that, a conspiracy to take everything from me.
But in the end, the easel is still there beckoning, quiet and non-judgemental. The only constant. Solid wood, impervious to the frailty of flesh and blood. Madening in its silence but strangely comforting. The canvas doesn't care, doesn't know. The paint is non-plussed and willing. And so I continue as if nothing had happened for a few blissful moments, lost in the gesture.