Truths Told in Fairytale: Memories of a Life Before and After the Flood
This is the art that comes from choosing the cheapest paper & flimsiest charcoal over food, clothing, or socks...of which there were none.
This is the art that happens when, after days spent in a state of catatonia, one’s eyes unconsciously begin to focus on somewhere in the here and now
on the brown of packing tape,
the blue of tarp
This art is not a meditation
meant to morph the characteristics of an individual into masses more easily drawn than the framework of one’s own mind
These are drawings of the heart, spirit, and soul.
These lines scream and sob, even when they’re alone,
Every mark a measurement of feeling, each piece closer to an exorcism than a work of art.
Unbidden, these memories claw their way out of me and on to the page, and the consequences of barring their exit:
While they often cloak themselves in fantasy, they speak nothing if not Truth,
These are drawings of all the memories of suffering. Of pain, fear, anger, indecision, and love, but they are not meant to be seen as a history thus recorded.
If they were to tell a story, it would be a tale of one who willingly chooses to fling themselves in to the depths of hell from whence they had just barely escaped, if only to take careful stock of the beauty once missed by eyes turned blind,
or, to discover, with ever growing surprise, that, in each hell, the faintest memory of a melody, the recollection alone twining itself through fire and flood, to draw them them close, and gently lift them back in to the light.
If these drawings are anything, they are the only thank you I know how to give for all the beauty, goodness, and wonder I could not then see.
This show is dedicated to all the small kindnesses & Mercies and all the unexpected gestures; to all and any empathy, shining all the brighter against a backdrop of bleak circumstance.
To all those acting sentry: thank you.
Ever and always.