the little sheets of
forgotten paper
crawled together
and lay, one atop another,
calmly bound.
(I've been writing in the morning when I wake up, and weird things seem to be showing up in my words)
21.1.11
19.1.11
18.1.11
This is a letter I wrote to the members of my Art Therapy Studio class.
I thought to post it on here so I wouldn't lose track of it.
"
...Before the class began, I had very few thoughts about what it would be like or how it would unfold. As I set up my paints on the first day, I felt a surge of anxiety and nostalgia. I remembered sitting in my parent’s dingy basement at sixteen, splashing paint all over a piece of scrap drywall. I remembered crying, heartbroken, painting out a letter to myself in my first apartment. I remembered sketching on a bumpy tour bus, driving through Tokyo with my father. This all came rushing back so quickly, I knew this was going to be an intense week in the studio.
I had not painted—really painted—since at least two years before that moment in class. Studying Fiber arts in school, my work became highly planned and very conceptual. I absolutely fell in love with the fibers medium, diving so deep in it that I forgot any other material existed. In my years of academic studio art, criticism and gallery proposals, I had forgotten the essence of why I made art in the first place. I had forgotten what it felt like to just create something with no thoughtful reasoning. It felt as though my art—my best friend, my teacher, my heart and my eyes—had, over the years, become my distant—albeit successful—business associate. Back in the studio, I felt a pang of anxiety in my stomach looking at the white paper in front of me. I tried to approach this incredibly sad, frustrating realization with an opportunistic viewpoint—as though this, right here and now, was my moment to reconnect with my estranged love. She was staring right at me.
During these first awkward minutes, I desperately needed the group’s spirit and unspoken support to get things started. Immediately, I felt it. The synergistic energy that reverberated through the space in the studio was palpable, with the rhythmic swish of brushes and the scrape of palette knives dancing through the air. As Shaun began beating his drum in the other room, the space took on a different, spiritual identity, with thick amber waves of warm supporting sound holding my head high and helping me to feel at peace. Without this atmospheric symphony, the awkward silence between myself and my paper would have been crippling. We hadn’t spoken in ages. Where would we begin?
Like ambient chatter at a busy party, I let the sounds I heard around me lead me to begin engaging with my paint. Freedom and comfort quickly followed. Before I knew it, my hand was floating across the page in front of me, aimlessly and happily making marks in dozens of colors. It felt just like old times. We were laughing, telling stories, asking questions on the paper. Time flew. At the end of this first experience, I looked at the work in front of me and felt a pervasive sense of gratitude. Because of this remarkable space and the allowance to fearlessly paint, this image had been given life and was looking back at me. I turned around to see dozens of bright paintings strewn across the room, all freshly awakened, greeting their makers and the whole studio space with glowing vibrance. We had all been on the same path at the same time.
...All of these interactions led me to awaken to something I had forgotten about in my quest to produce artwork in the past. The work we make—the images, the shapes, the colors, the forms—are all independent entitites. They live and breathe and speak when listened to. Somehow, at some point in my life, I had locked these expressions away in a vault, only allowing the ‘best’ images to come out.
The third day of the studio, I wrote in my journal:
“My art has become a slave to my ego. It has become a second class citizen, held to impossible standards, forced to serve my own selfish drives or stay silent—discriminated, disrespected—How do I liberate you?”
In the process of witnessing the performances on the final day, I felt as though this question had began to be answered. The simple, profound act of creation, when distilled in the safety and security of being witnessed, becomes a remarkably freeing and rebellious behavior. These actions are among the purest in their intention, focused entirely on the process of creation, without worries for an expected product. There is no ego drive, no hope for special recognition, no worries of aesthetic success. In the forum of a performance, art making becomes incredibly mesmerizing. To watch a creative expression as it arrives—to be crumbled, torn, stamped or stitched—is much like witnessing the birth of a child. The work becomes an ambassador, a storyteller, and a map to an unknown place. Allowing the mysteries to unfold as they are created is the polar opposite of the enslavement I feared. Now I try to remember to focus on the process, and listen to the wisdom it has to impart before I become overly worried about the aesthetic product.
Now, a week after all of these remarkable experiences, recalling my studio time with all of you has brought me back to that grateful, reverent state of mind. I often forget that a potential wellspring of enlightenment lives inside our minds and bodies every second of every day. It will bubble to the surface any time I take a moment to notice the insurmountable beauty and mystery that lies in the things around us, as well as the quiet, unexpressed visions within us. These moments of clarity often come in short bursts, like the flashbulb of a camera or a splash of cold water to the face. Maintaining those spontaneous junctures of understanding and awe becomes exceedingly difficult as the minutes pass, often leaving me desperately searching for what that beautiful feeling was and why I had felt it. In our studio, this clarity came less like a splash to the face and more like a massive, tumbling wave—with force, density and overwhelming power, lifting me up and carrying me to another place. I was able to gain a very rare sense of strong, consistent connection to this unique, creative energy within me and the universal brilliance within our community as a whole. For this wonderful gift, I thank you all with all my heart.
"
I thought to post it on here so I wouldn't lose track of it.
"
...Before the class began, I had very few thoughts about what it would be like or how it would unfold. As I set up my paints on the first day, I felt a surge of anxiety and nostalgia. I remembered sitting in my parent’s dingy basement at sixteen, splashing paint all over a piece of scrap drywall. I remembered crying, heartbroken, painting out a letter to myself in my first apartment. I remembered sketching on a bumpy tour bus, driving through Tokyo with my father. This all came rushing back so quickly, I knew this was going to be an intense week in the studio.
I had not painted—really painted—since at least two years before that moment in class. Studying Fiber arts in school, my work became highly planned and very conceptual. I absolutely fell in love with the fibers medium, diving so deep in it that I forgot any other material existed. In my years of academic studio art, criticism and gallery proposals, I had forgotten the essence of why I made art in the first place. I had forgotten what it felt like to just create something with no thoughtful reasoning. It felt as though my art—my best friend, my teacher, my heart and my eyes—had, over the years, become my distant—albeit successful—business associate. Back in the studio, I felt a pang of anxiety in my stomach looking at the white paper in front of me. I tried to approach this incredibly sad, frustrating realization with an opportunistic viewpoint—as though this, right here and now, was my moment to reconnect with my estranged love. She was staring right at me.
During these first awkward minutes, I desperately needed the group’s spirit and unspoken support to get things started. Immediately, I felt it. The synergistic energy that reverberated through the space in the studio was palpable, with the rhythmic swish of brushes and the scrape of palette knives dancing through the air. As Shaun began beating his drum in the other room, the space took on a different, spiritual identity, with thick amber waves of warm supporting sound holding my head high and helping me to feel at peace. Without this atmospheric symphony, the awkward silence between myself and my paper would have been crippling. We hadn’t spoken in ages. Where would we begin?
Like ambient chatter at a busy party, I let the sounds I heard around me lead me to begin engaging with my paint. Freedom and comfort quickly followed. Before I knew it, my hand was floating across the page in front of me, aimlessly and happily making marks in dozens of colors. It felt just like old times. We were laughing, telling stories, asking questions on the paper. Time flew. At the end of this first experience, I looked at the work in front of me and felt a pervasive sense of gratitude. Because of this remarkable space and the allowance to fearlessly paint, this image had been given life and was looking back at me. I turned around to see dozens of bright paintings strewn across the room, all freshly awakened, greeting their makers and the whole studio space with glowing vibrance. We had all been on the same path at the same time.
...All of these interactions led me to awaken to something I had forgotten about in my quest to produce artwork in the past. The work we make—the images, the shapes, the colors, the forms—are all independent entitites. They live and breathe and speak when listened to. Somehow, at some point in my life, I had locked these expressions away in a vault, only allowing the ‘best’ images to come out.
The third day of the studio, I wrote in my journal:
“My art has become a slave to my ego. It has become a second class citizen, held to impossible standards, forced to serve my own selfish drives or stay silent—discriminated, disrespected—How do I liberate you?”
In the process of witnessing the performances on the final day, I felt as though this question had began to be answered. The simple, profound act of creation, when distilled in the safety and security of being witnessed, becomes a remarkably freeing and rebellious behavior. These actions are among the purest in their intention, focused entirely on the process of creation, without worries for an expected product. There is no ego drive, no hope for special recognition, no worries of aesthetic success. In the forum of a performance, art making becomes incredibly mesmerizing. To watch a creative expression as it arrives—to be crumbled, torn, stamped or stitched—is much like witnessing the birth of a child. The work becomes an ambassador, a storyteller, and a map to an unknown place. Allowing the mysteries to unfold as they are created is the polar opposite of the enslavement I feared. Now I try to remember to focus on the process, and listen to the wisdom it has to impart before I become overly worried about the aesthetic product.
Now, a week after all of these remarkable experiences, recalling my studio time with all of you has brought me back to that grateful, reverent state of mind. I often forget that a potential wellspring of enlightenment lives inside our minds and bodies every second of every day. It will bubble to the surface any time I take a moment to notice the insurmountable beauty and mystery that lies in the things around us, as well as the quiet, unexpressed visions within us. These moments of clarity often come in short bursts, like the flashbulb of a camera or a splash of cold water to the face. Maintaining those spontaneous junctures of understanding and awe becomes exceedingly difficult as the minutes pass, often leaving me desperately searching for what that beautiful feeling was and why I had felt it. In our studio, this clarity came less like a splash to the face and more like a massive, tumbling wave—with force, density and overwhelming power, lifting me up and carrying me to another place. I was able to gain a very rare sense of strong, consistent connection to this unique, creative energy within me and the universal brilliance within our community as a whole. For this wonderful gift, I thank you all with all my heart.
"
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