This week, while in the second week of another minitaper round I have come up against another withdrawal symptom, at least I think that is what it is…and not my body signaling me something…unsure about this: whether it is detoxing only or my body woking for me, as it always does.
My eyes, started hurting, puffed up, it is painful to see, to watch, to look. Bit of a bummer for a visual art peep like me…or anyone really…methinketh…so I have been resting, tea bags on my eyes, loads of fluids, hoping it is just the CNS adjusting to another lowering of the prescription drug..and not the-my unconscious knocking on the door…who knows?
But painted a bit too
…but mostly stared into the green in the garden and been digging some of it for next year.
How has your week been?
Arting greetings, to wherever you are-at. More later. AND HAPPY EQUINOX.
They have made it back into my studio…first as affirmatory messages on my mirror, flutterring their tracing paper wings, then landing in my paintings and getting trapped there.
Butterflies, of hope.
Feeling lot better this week, having started another minitaper round: on 55% of my prescribed dosage now. After almost ten months. Another ten or so ahead. Midway point? Definitely if I count in the sertraline taper last year too: Slowly slowly catch a monkey…and the precision digital scales the #teddylost paintings have paid for have been of great help. Art of withdrawal indeed.
It is a strange and not always easy position to be in: I have always considered myself and been more of a community and participatory artist…working with people…now by the nature of the withdrawal process being pushed into a solitary confinement of the studio…being grounded…and grounding in the withdrawal process.
Following my #becometheartistyouare process meantime.
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In the meantime…butterflies…of hope.
Most of the time I need to create in order to see what it is.
As in the case of these nudes.
I just had an urge to paint them.
I had to.
Later on, sitting in my studio, looking at them…I realized what they were.
Traces of memories….memories of solitary confinement.
I could have known.
The way they came about was hurling myself, body painted in black, up against the wall of paper. Then I worked with the traces, expressively, and then felt like covering them in a layer of expressive white.
Memories of hurling myself up against walls in a clinic all those years ago came back. Something certainly had to be processed this way. It wanted out.
These ones are certainly making it to the #artofwithdrawal show that is planned for next year. ❤
Recently I have been playing and arting with my #tracingmyself process some more. I have been capturing touches and then boxing them up or sewing them into transparent lit up objects that conjure up all sorts of things, memories of the night, memories of the touch…memories…of…
I wonder what these boxes and objects evoke in you?
Let me know. For more pieces see my instagram profile.