Tuesday, April 11, 2006
What it means to be foolish...
Don't we all have our weaknesses? Certain indulgences, or people, or feelings best left unfelt? Envy, shame, regret, misplaced affection...
I wish I could explore these things artistically. Instead I tend to merely indulge them emotionally without trying to build something tangible from them. Truth is, I am terrified to let the chaos out on paper. Because perhaps, secretly, I enjoy my rage and my heartbreak, and wallow in it with a sort of bitter joy. As though this is what makes me alive.
I am trying to work up the courage to do more than just indulge my silly emotional binges, get braver and look them in the eye and maybe even try to wrestle them onto canvas. Why am I such a fuckwit about this?
Art does not always have to be cute or pretty; perhaps I am afraid if my art shows its uglier face, the pretty things I make will resonate as hollow, rather than sincere?
To pretend I am nothing but a basket of pretty feelings and precious, tender hearted sentiment is to believe in rubbish.
I ache and I seethe and I rage and I burn and I collapse and I break and I erupt and I wail.
Why is this warrior never seen or heard?
Why does she paint flowers?