"Art can permeate the very deepest part of us, where no words exist."
-- Eileen Miller,
The Girl Who Spoke With Pictures:
Autism Through Art
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| Abstract 2-25-14 |
"I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I'm frightened by the devil
But I'm drawn to those ones that ain't."
-- Joni Mitchell, "A Case of You"
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| Sunflower 2-25-14 |
"... in art therapy, your inner world of images, feelings, thought, and ideas
are always of primary importance to the experience."
-- Cathy Maldiochi, The Art Therapy Sourcebook
I know full well that whenever I launch a new 365 days project, there will be good days and there will be bad days. It's simply part of the bargain. Part of the journey.
A project like this one couldn't exist without the bad days. If it did, it would be a fucking lie.
My very first year-long project was spawned by bad days. It was a year of self portraits that I didn't show to anybody except the therapist who suggested I use my photography as art therapy.
That was over 3 years ago, and I am still using my art as therapy when things get rough and tough.
Like this week.
I'm in a little bad patch. A bit of a skid.
I'm struggling with some stuff I thought I had conquered, but now is back, and I'm discouraged.
It's been a difficult 3-steps-back kind of week. I've noticed that look in my eyes again. It's a look I only get when the darkness creeps in -- my brow crawls down into a knot between my eyes and my jaw clenches, freezing my mouth into a perpetual grimace. I look like I'm bracing for impact.
I'm scared of how I feel.
But as in the past 3 years, when it feels like the ship is sinking, there is a tiny life boat that floats me away from the downward spiral.
Art.
Even when I don't feel like it, I know that immersing myself if something, anything creatively engaging will help me stay afloat until the rescue helicopter comes to airlift me out.
Yesterday it was finger painting. Yep. Good old fashioned kindergarten-style finger painting.
First I turned on K.D. Lang's Hymns of the 49th Parallel (the only music that can reach me at times like this). Then I put on my art apron, rolled up my sleeves and schmutzed paint around on paper for a couple of hours.
It helped.
It didn't fix my bad shit, or make my bad shit go away. But the feel of cold paint on my hands and the sound of healing music in my ears did something to my mind that helped me forget the twisting in my guts until I was able to catch my breath.
I made two paintings. They may not be any good. Art critics might tear them to shreds. Real artists might think they're crap. A passer-by might think their 4-year-old nephew could do better. But I didn't make them for critics or artists or passers-by or anyone's damn nephew.
I did them to lift the pressure of the paws of the beast that's been sitting on my chest and panting its hot sour breath in my face. Kind of like throwing a stick for it to chase. He'll be back.
It doesn't matter if my finger paintings are any good.
Making them was good for me.
