Art as Therapy...Me?

Make no mistake; writing will always be my first love.  These days if I go a long period (three or four days) without writing, I begin to feel on edge and unable to relax, no matter how exhausted I may be.  I find this an interesting phenomenon.  During the some of the darkest periods of my life, I did not write, and must now search my memory to put those experiences down on paper.  It is much harder to write about something that has hurt you if you've allowed a great deal of time to pass.  We are only human, after all, and will generally avoid pain if we can.  I have found that in order to get the negative events down that have shaped my life, I’ve had to form a list entitled, “Things I’m Afraid to Write About Because I Know They Will Hurt Too Much”.  As I, at a snail’s pace, cross them off one after another, I am able to see that while I am writing them, it does hurt, but that hurt fades, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, depending on the topic, and leaves me with a sense of relief, as I suddenly have a little more room in my lungs to breathe. 

We write because we have stories to tell that explain how we came to be who we are, and why we made some of the choices people would not understand if they have not walked in our shoes.  To write a blog, or a story, is to say:  come walk with me for a few minutes, and see how this all came to be.  Sometimes I am the one who understands my decisions better after that walk.  How about that?  It is an amazing process to describe a life experience, exactly how you felt about it then, and how you feel about it now.  As someone very wise once said, “What is healing, but a shift in perspective?”

But somehow, even the writing wasn’t enough.  A few weeks ago, I got it into my head to try my hand at art therapy.  Was my Cory Bird whispering in my ear, as I rested against my favorite pillow, and surfed the net?  Small smile.  Maybe she was.  All I know is that I prefer to paint pictures with words, and suddenly I was googling art therapy.  I remember writing in my journal that I was going to give painting a go, and that I would pick up a couple canvases, some paint, and an art journal over the weekend.

The idea of an art journal was appealing because some writing was allowed, even preferred.  To me, there will never be anything more beautiful than words.  I just couldn’t help but to think if art therapy helped Cory with all the horrors she’d had to deal with, it was certainly worth a try for me. 

Anybody who knows me well, knows I can’t just pick up some paints and a sketchbook and call it good.  I got all those supplies, but also spent the better part of a Saturday in Barnes and Noble, poring over their art journaling magazines and art books.  Suddenly, I wanted to learn to sketch… well.  I wanted to do faces.  I wanted to do nudes.  I wanted to explore the style of expressive painting like Cory had done.  (Thank you, Jay Conklin, for explaining to me just what that meant- to use color, line, and texture to convey feeling, not depict objects or people in their  realistic forms). 

Sure, I’d done some painting at the cemetery when I used to visit Cory everyday.  But what I realized is that I’d been going about it all wrong.  I tried my best –and failed miserably- to focus on the end result of my artistic endeavors.  As I slowly became hooked on the feeling of opening myself, and letting my hands do what they wanted, without caring what it looked like, I discovered what they’ve told us all along is absolutely true…it is all about the process. 

It didn’t happen right away.  I approached sketching and painting as any other new skill to be learned.  I read, I looked at what others had done, and I imitated.  I didn’t do half bad, but nothing felt like mine.  No matter what style I attempted, the pieces only looked like inferior representations of someone else’s feelings and ideas.  What good was that?  And,  really, who wants to be a thief?

I think my current style was a happy accident.  It was a Saturday; I was home alone, missing Cory so badly I thought I would lose my mind.  I sat down and started slapping some paint down on paper.  I made a mistake…and instead of getting upset, I just went with it.  I painted over it, I painted around it.  I made it work for me; I went into the deep.   I spent hours at my dining room table, listening to music, and feeling a peace I hadn’t felt for months.  It was okay to make a mistake.  It might be ugly, sure,  but it was mine.

That was exactly what emerged as my current style.  I basically make a pretty picture, and then, very deliberately, just destroy it.  The thing is, when it’s done, it truly portrays my despair, my misery, my guilt.  And yet, I am able to find some beauty in what has been altered.  With every muddy, fuzzy line, I can remember what it felt like to hold the world in my hands for nineteen years before seeing it ripped away right under my nose...right down my street.

Art is subjective, so on paper or on the canvas,  all my dark thoughts and self-depricating feelings aren’t necessarily unhealthy, they might even be considered powerful.  They say, I was here, I had a love, and I lost her.  But she was worth every moment.  And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Gotta go- I have a picture to make.