Every time I pick up a paint brush; I pick up a memory or a time to process in my mind. Lately this is about what art means to me and honouring the message I am able to share with the world. I think a lot about my past and who my dad wanted me to be. I think about who I used to be and the direction I am going in life.
I’ve been reading over my parents letters from wilderness for nearly a year. It’s a slow, nauseating — yet freeing process. I’ve posted some of my responses here on hive. I am now seeing with adult eyes what was blasted in my face as a child: letters, words and questions that meant nothing.
What does it mean when someone says, “take accountability; more responsibility, and know that it’s all wrong.” What more could I account for? Am I suppose to take responsibility for your actions too? Where do I begin and where do my parents end?
While I am growing out of my former perspective and experience, I am also redefining words. I am putting experiences into their proper place in the puzzle. I am owning my sexuality; I am taking all my memories into account as I am rewriting my own memories?
What does it mean to be respectful? And who deserves ones respect? Why do I respect certain authority figures and not others? Why do I desire to be respected? What does that look like?
What are boundaries? What does it mean to keep them steady? What do other peoples boundaries look like? How can I tell when they have erected a force field? How can others tell I do? What does a personal boundary look like? Why does it mean if others violate it?
After much inspection — it seems right, wrong, good and bad are subjective. It seems that it’s based off of ones value systems; it is not a unified perception. Two people can say “this is good” and be talking about polar opposite things. What is wrong is personal and one can feel it inside going against the grain of being.
I didn’t just accept my parent’s social constructs blindly; as they wanted. And perhaps for all the hell I have gone through — learning all this has the potential to lead me to heaven. A simple paradigm shift led me to the streets of gold. I define that as the present moment. And if I am bold enough to become aware; magical shifts take place in the mind.
And that’s the point to doing all this public trauma recovery — to witness the perspective change; while still regaining the genuine core of who I am. I am not shifting FOR anyone; as it can only be done for oneself. I chose to dig down for a new perspective. Even as my mother was yelling at me “to stop digging” for answers to the questions that naturally bubbled up inside of me.
The painting is coming along well. I am on one of the final stages. I’ve seen it through every mistake and risk I took. I’ve seen it in stages that I hated, and I thought “holy fuck, I think I royally fucked up.” Others times I want to pat myself on the back for artistic genius. It’s a conflicting and emotional process. I think I needed this time to paint and explore in this way. I believe I am painting my heart — because what else is there to share?
When I stare at the blank page I have no idea the adventure that I am in for — my original was oil paint that I crafted in an abstract method. Slowly along the way, I learn what the process is needing from me. It’s symbolic, perhaps. The world needs this message and it heals me as well.
Art is how my heart bleeds.
And holy fuck is it a giant bloody mess.