The Answers I'll Never Find

Since being diagnosed with a mental illness in 2003, I have dealt with five medical leaves from three different jobs.  While this fifth current medical leave is due to breast cancer, I still find myself reflecting on oh so much.

I use art as my therapy.  Paintings and collage and mixed media projects help me cope with all sorts of emotions.  While they don't necessarily answer any of my questions, they help pose important questions.

People have woven their way in and out of my life.  Some get close, some are there for me, while others keep a safe distance.  I don't quite understand what is so dangerous about me that they feel so compelled to keep a 'safe distance,' but perhaps that's more of an insecurity in their part rather than mine?

If anything, I find myself grateful for my freedom.  I find myself grateful for my artistic freedom.  I've never achieved any success with writing.  I've never been assigned an editor who encourages me to change my story or further develop a character.  I've never had a music executive dictate what will breed more success on my next album submission.  I've never been controlled by a publicist, who speaks for me and advises me what I can or cannot do or say or think or feel. Maybe I'm wrong, and maybe it's not really like that.  But it's what I currently perceive the creative world to be.

So I guess I'll be grateful for my freedom.     I don't have the talent that our STARS possess, but I do have insight.  It's the insight that propels my silly art pieces that I create.  Guess I'll keep going with it.  Because I don't quite know what else to do with myself.

New Year, New ?????

I'm not going to give into peer pressure and society to make for a new me this year.  I am just going to continue doing the best I can and not beat myself up anymore.  Maybe the old me can resurface a bit, but only the good parts...

So I went to a Bob Mould concert on New Years Eve.  I love his music and that's the 2nd time I've seen him live.  I missed him this summer when he was playing for free downtown due to agoraphobia I was dealing with last June...so it was extra special to see him this time around.  I have his autobiography to read but haven't delved into it too much.  He writes openly about 'mental health' struggles and I am always game to read about other people's successes in dealing with that stuff.  I'll get around to it soon.  I actually started it and he started talking about abuse early on and I wasn't feeling strong enough to read about it.  But I'll get to it.  Anyway, he put on a great show and it was a fun night out.  The owner of the Metro was hanging out and I smiled at him as we passed each other in the hallway.  He was like, Who are you smiling at me?  Do I know you?  Haha.  But THAT is the person I USED to be...the person who would smile at strangers and might even make a new friend that way.  My younger self.  I want to be more like my younger self.  The good aspects of my younger self, though...not the depressive suicidal version.

I love watching artists do their thing.  I always do my own thing, but I don't have the balls to show it to anyone.  Maybe someday I will, but for now I just do it as my therapy...and that's OK.  Or maybe it's not.  I don't know.  I watched the movie Big Eyes yesterday and what a great subtle art revenge story.  A young naive artist agrees to lie to the public because her husband wants to take credit for all the paintings she creates.  Based on a true story, so it's even better.  I recommend seeing it.  My husband recently invited some gas service salesmen inside our apartment and one of them asked about one of my paintings propped up on the easel.  He asked how much and my husband said, $800.  The guy said he didn't have that kind of money right now but left his contact information if we could work out an arrangement.  It's an old painting I did back in the nineties but I don't think I want to part with it.  Is that weird of me?  Probably.

We lost a great person right before Christmas this year....my father-in-law.  He was kind and wise and full of good humor, even as he dealt with difficulties in his health.  It is a major life adjustment without him, but we are better people to have known someone like him in this life.

I wish you weirdos reading this a Happy Happy New Year.  I am calling you weirdos because you read this thing and never leave any comments for me.  What am I, chopped liver?

day jobs and artistic pursuits

My paintings are all piled up in the living room, a pile of empty canvases next to them waiting for inspiration to hit.  I recently bought some supplies to start a project in which I attempt to actually SELL some paintings but I'm having a hard time getting started.  Family members have looked through my old stuff when they've dropped by and said things like, 'Uh, you need to SELL these paintings and make some money!' (sis-in-law) and 'Hey, these are pretty good.  Why don't you sell them?' (my Dad) and then, my favorite, from my mother:

'What are you gonna do with all of these!?!?!'
I don't know, Mom.  It's just my therapy right now.  (She has also lent us some money a few weeks ago and gave me a canvas with specific instructions of what she wants painted to decorate her family room for her Christmas present this year.)

A former colleague of mine who is a VERY talented artist, way better than me...one of those actual God-given talents in fact... is trying to earn enough money by selling his personal belongings AND commission some pieces to move back here from NYC.  We've always worked retail and everything else was always a hopeful project on the side.  I know how grueling retail can be and I really want some good stuff to happen for him, for a change.  He went to NYC and really tried to make something happen.  I'm hoping his return to the Midwest can provide for some new opportunities.

Another former colleague and friend of mine left behind a retail job to pursue his music full-time.  I'm rooting for him and trying to offer support.  I have absolutely no music talent whatsoever and I truly admire those who do.  My cousins in France do music and somehow get financial support to work on their projects and make a tolerable living.  I get nervous about anyone leaving steady employment to go for their dreams but, you know, taking chances and all...

That's just it.  I don't take chances.  I tried once and wound up falling flat on my face.  I ended up in a psych ward, in fact, was heavily doped up and diagnosed and shunned, and I've never gotten over it.  More than a decade later, I'm still traumatized.  I can't imagine showing my paintings anywhere, in public, for people to see.  I can't muster up the courage to put myself out there like that.  I don't have it in me, even with a never-ending prescription for Ativan.  Nope, can't do it.

And so I keep working and trying to do my best in my day job every day. 

On the flip side, I've recently gotten in touch with an artist and writer to ask him to sign some of his books we are currently selling at the shop.  His artwork took off so big and strong that he got to quit his day job and has made a successful career for himself.  He's like, famous and stuff!  I took his old job years ago at the bookstore and it's really inspiring to see someone in close proximity soar like that.  I'm so happy for him, truly.

As I coordinate details for an upcoming art show to showcase two local artists at the shop, I think about my role and life in the artistic universe.  It is a subtle one, and I'm comfortable with that.  I don't want any big things for my life, but I truly want them for other people.  I understand the depths of artistic pain and depression and self-expressionism and creativity and mania and strong pursuit.  I understand certain elements of the commercial aspects of artistic success and the glamour behind becoming a commodity to make other people rich with your talent.  I'm not that talented person who 'has what it takes,' but I'm a supporter of those who do.  In this world of harsh criticism and endless bankable marketing opportunity, I'm the good friend who will stand on the sidelines and cheer and support those whom I care about. 

I have learned that this world can chew you up and spit you out real quick (or just throw you in a psych ward and analyse you to death).  But I believe in survival, and rebirth and renaissance, and friends lifting one another up, and the good guys getting to the truly good stuff that is so well-deserved.

And as far as my writing endeavors go?  Maybe someday I can spit out a book.  I've learned, am still learning, and will continue to learn for many years.  If I could somehow formulate my experiences into a helpful tale, then I will do just that.  I put my heart and soul into everything I do, and if my vulnerabilities find a light and a connection then so be it.

art therapy group

So with the help of my therapist, I have located an Art Therapy group at a wellness center.  I was nervous as all get-out to attend my first group, but I got on that bus and took an extra Ativan and made it to the session.

The first session was odd because I was the only one to show up!  It was just me and the facilitator of the group, so we spent over an hour working on two separate art therapy projects to get started.  I spent the first half hour coloring in a mandala and discussing it afterwards.  Coloring, throwing paint on a canvas, doodling....all things I do to rest my anxious mind on my own and now I had someone to actually discuss the WHYS of how it's therapeutic.  The second project was even a bit more childlike and 'freeing' to do and I was so happy I went.

The group has been starting to build and I'm getting to know a few others, slowly.  It's hard to open up to a new group about stuff, but I love the artistic exchange of the group.  Everyone is so critical of their artwork they create, yet it is designed as a 'no artistic talent' needed group and none of us are masterpiece painters.  But they BECOME masterpieces once we tell each other what we like about each others creations and we lift each other up.  No criticism, just mutual respect of the EXPRESSIVE OUTLET in which we share our emotions and feelings.

It's exactly what I was looking for with the 'art' I create. 

I wish the real world were as gentle sometimes.

Endeavors

I beat myself up over not following through on all the endeavors I have going on.  Sorry if I've disappointed people with my lack of genius masterpiece submissions.  But not everyone's got it, n'est-ce pas?  Not everyone can create a masterpiece.  Some people just create as an outlet during mania and depression, but we aren't talking about mental illness in June, right?  Right.  Moving on.

As an admirer of arts of all kinds, I never feel alone when I can connect to something that finds its way into my life, either audibly or visually.  I love finding obscure foreign and old movies at the library.  I just watched a riveting, harrowing tale called The Patience Stone, where a young Afghani woman turns to her comatose husband with a bullet in his neck to reveal all of her secrets.  Wow, what an ending.  I'll have to find the book and see how it compares.

Still, I'm seeking that community again.  I'm slowly building.  I'm slowly reaching out again after years of solitude.  I've got some friends on the dance floor.  That's a start.  I've got some new neighbors to meet.  Is there that same sense of community online as well?  There can be, in the right place.  I still find the written word to be wonderfully old-fashioned.  If I set some sort of thematic goal in this blog perhaps I could participate in the blogosphere.  But it is exactly what it is.  J'y pense et puis j'oublie.  Literally, I think about it then I forget.  This strange little portal to my thoughts is something that helps me organize my thinking.  I have loads of journals written of this crap.    It's a bit more fun to put one out here instead.  Who would have thunk blogging would be a thing?

Embellishing old paintings

Here's a bad snapshot of my current easel set up.  I started this painting in 1996 after visiting the Taos Pueblo during a trip with family to New Mexico.  There was an elder visibly pissed off at people taking photos of him like he was an animal in a zoo.  Despite his irritation people continued to take pictures and I decided I was going to paint it once I got home.  No photos for me, thanks.  This painting went unfinished for many years until I picked it up again a few months ago and started adding my own surreal embellishments which 18 years of experience have since colored my life.

It's a fun exercise to 'edit' paintings.  That odd little window stuck between nowhere special in the interiors of the home were probably a genuine point of perspective mistake I did at age 19, but now I kind of like it....

There's still more embellishing to do.  I'm having fun with this one.

Writing journeys

I took a few little trips recently and tried to write a bit along the way.  I've tried my hand at poetry, and it just doesn't come naturally to me.  Still I do it, as it's a nice exercise to put complex thoughts and beliefs into a small series of word patterns.  I won't know if they make any sense until I share them with someone other than my husband.  He gets some of them, but our perspectives of the universe differ somewhat.  He tends to feel really isolated from the world of famous art-makers and/or Celebrity, as do I.  I tend to feel the effects of Social Class Difference, whereas he doesn't see The Human Side of those big ol' stars.  In this day and age, it's all a big warped sense of heavily marketed illusion though, right?  Maybe.  

Anyway, sometimes my thoughts on fame and recognition go something more like this Thai commercial:

http://youtu.be/cZGghmwUcbQ

It's Valentine's Day.

I feel like I'm walking in molasses on this pill dosage change right now.  I couldn't dance last night because I felt like an awkward, drugged zombie.  Feeling this way does not make me happy.  It makes me very, very depressed in fact.

I'm also tired of the random people who appear every so often who Fuck-With-You-While-They're-Talking-To-You.  I know that doesn't make sense to the ordinary person, but some know what I'm talking about.  When I feel things are askew, I give myself three words of advice:

Be An Indian

...and I walk away from the bullshit.

The following painting was done in my twenties after a psychologist asked me to spell WORLD backwards and I couldn't wrap my mind around the letters.  Many of my paintings are very juvenile.  It's a way for me to escape the complicated, messed-up world of adults and their, uh, games....

Life as a canvas.

Working with one's hands as he or she hammers away at this thing called life is kind of like a meditation.  There is an energy with every movement, task or endeavor.

I struggle with the depression that comes along with not being able to create some sort of finalized masterpiece to share with the world.  I beat myself up over it and make myself sick sometimes.  There is a pressure, I feel, to be something magnificent.  There is a pressure to reach a certain level of perfection.  There is a pressure to submit a concrete chef d'ouevre to feel as an important participant in this world.  Sometimes the pressure intensifies, and I fall into deep depression and feel like a failure.

But I am learning different ways.  A samurai walked into my store the other day and grunted at me.  It was weird and comical, but I was reminded that I, too, can be a warrior of sorts.

Every little thing I do in this world matters.

I am a participant in the world each and every day.

I contribute in my own special way with each small gesture.

Every word I type, say, paint, sing, share with others is an action, no matter how small.  I can harness my HERE AND NOW, and make it count.

I may be small, metaphorically speaking, but little things I do can be viewed as a brushstroke on this big ginormous canvas that is my life.

Sometimes I think there are people out there in the big bad universe who expect so much more from me.  But I don't care.

While I may not be 'creating' on a bigger, more important scale, I am harnessing what I know is the life in front of me and making it count.

A hell of a lot of words for that which I cannot quite explain.

community.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.

Community.  And not the TV show.

It seems like it was always easy to find a community to be a part of in college.  I lived in the International House, one level of a dormitory which housed people from all over the world, where we were to be immersed in all the world's cultures.  It was great fun on many occasions, but other times?  Not so much.  There were quite a few quarrels and heated debates, and we soon discovered differences in public bathroom etiquette.  I remember waking up to signs in the bathroom one morning that the shower stalls are not where we pee in the US.  We use toilets here. 

And then I participated in a French meetup group after my last return from France.  I wanted to keep my French current and continue to practice the language outside of France.  It was fun for a while, but there were several times a friend and I had to leave when 15 minutes into the meeting we realized it was a Pick Up Chicks spot.

There was another time after first being diagnosed with a mental illness that I joined a support group and went to weekly (or more) meetings.  I did it for a while and felt like I was involved in something very important, but after some time had passed, I realized it was bringing me down.  The people I met with each week were very nice folks, but I realized that I didn't want to live my illness, nor be my illness.  I was much more than that.

I tried my hand at a staff art show, still one of the most nerve-wracking things I have ever done in my life.  It was great excitement as the hype began to build and we started the installation of everyone's pieces.  I volunteered as the 'beer girl' on opening night and was amazed to see all the crowds.  We all walked around and got to discover an element of each coworker's personality that we may have not noticed before.  The show ran for a few weeks and was quite a success.  It was a great experience, but when I look at my artwork I've completed to date, I don't think I would be so comfortable showing it at this time.  My artwork makes me feel like an outsider.

I have friends who make their living writing.  Some went into journalism, some PR, others freelance.  While I have always enjoyed writing, I have not made it my community.  Take this blog, for example.  I write this more as a message in a bottle sort of way, floating while I try to organize my thoughts after a messy number of years struggling with mind stuff.  I don't workshop my stories nor do I enjoy the promotion side of things.  I write and make my art as my therapy.  If there are sinister, vulture-type people out there who prey upon my frankness on this, well, j'éspere que cette vérité makes them open their eyes a little bit about the intent of their curiosity.

So back to that word again...community.  I am trying very hard to not be that loner outsider all the time.  As time goes on and wounds heal, I feel more and more confident to dive back into the important interests and passions that fuel me.  Whether that be volunteering somewhere again or getting more involved in my new neighborhood, or taking a class, or locating new 'artistic' peers, or, or, or...well, the ideas just start to soar when I think about it.

hibrrrrrrnating some more

Oh the cold weather.

It gets the best of me. I never have two consecutive days off so I try to make the best time of my free days. But that dang Chicago cold!

Attempted to write some more. Fueled by coffee and warm fuzzy slippers and itchy brain cells, I 'vomited' on paper some more. Kind of like I'm doing now. Fruitless. Perhaps I need to re-read Stephen King's On Writing. Whatever happened to my copy?

There is a tale in me that I want to tell. Or as some say, perhaps everyone's got a book in 'em. What carries the stories that we hear in our lifetimes? The relatedness of our journeys? The fantasy? The hook? The character development? The dilemma? The unique voice?

I draw from a unique set of experiences. I have this itch to explain them and paint them and share them, but they will not hold any meaning to me unless they are understood. Well, not even understood, but I do ask that they have the ability to connect to the reader. I try out some of these stories/experiences in spoken stories with my husband and a few select friends, and the reaction I get is not one of connection. "Do you understand? Does this make sense?" And the answer is always various stages of 'No.' If I can't allow them to make sense for those close to me, how do I know what connection lies beyond?

I once tried my hand participating in an art show. I don't think it's fair to label myself an artist because I do not possess the God-given gift that others do. But as a creative person, I wanted to challenge myself in a new way. It was a staff show that took place at a gallery in Pilsen, joined together by my coworkers at the time of Museum of Contemporary Art. The pieces included installations, paintings, drawings, videos, you name it - coming from all levels of talent. It was a nerve-wracking experience for me. But I did it.

My piece was something I came up with as a means of connecting a conversation with other artistic mediums. Being a fan of music and such a lover of words, I often wonder what stories lie behind the reality of a song. I scoured thrift shops for the perfect worn-out stereo speaker surrounded with the perfect type of wood to which I could burn the words. I skipped an Easter Sunday with the family and sat in my old apartment by the lake listening to music on the radio as my woodburning wand spent 15 plus hours engraving a message across the broken-down sound system. The message was as ephemeral as a three-minute song and doesn't even bear repeating at this point, but it was clear to at least one person.

Someone sitting at the gallery relayed the message to me that a man came over to her to comment specifically on how much he enjoyed my piece. All of those works in that space and he chose to comment on mine and mine alone.

That's all that mattered to me, especially in remembrance of everything that had happened a few weeks later in my life.

Maybe one day I'll muster up the courage to try it all again.

good morning

Yet another blog I've created.

Will I keep up with this one?