Flower Power
She is embracing and embraced, nestled by the warmth of the protective flowers slowly descending on her, snuggling her.
She appears to be in mid collapse into bed as they float onto her, ready for sleep, as the sun sets in the sky behind her.
She is relentlessly pushed into the sharp, pointed petals, though she attempts in vain to turn her face and avoid having her closed eyes poked to oblivion. She struggles under the weight of the huge, pink boulder atop her skinny, naked arms. There are two others right behind it, beautiful but heavy, as they barrel down a mountain, destined to give her the bum’s rush right off the edge of the page.
Her hair glistens with matching golden tones; perhaps she is absorbing herself into the atmosphere, disappearing. Or, is she rising, hitting the giant pink obstacle up to the heavens like God’s own volleyball? Does her placid expression convey a peaceful knowing, acceptance, meditation?
I am a practitioner of the un-art, the non-drawing, the creation without having to know how to do anything actual. Splatter painting, smudgy charcoal drawing with indistinct lines, knitting various sizes of rectangles. But during the breakdown of my marriage, art-making became the only thing that could channel the fire in me that was so intense you could melt a penny between my fingers. I made things constantly, ugly things, practical things. Stripping and painting furniture. Faux finishing walls and ceilings. Poking and spackling holes around my house. I had always been a writer, but suddenly it wasn’t enough, I needed other parts of my brain activated, I needed to use my whole body, I needed to cut things and pour things and somehow be more of the things.
Creative work like this has steps, and I can tell you I needed those steps. The purpose of the background was only to create chaos, the color and texture in glorious acrylics made thick with medium gels and carved into with stencils. The raised silky pearl beads are pinned, surrounded by crumpled stiff cupcake foils, and bent up into big, pokey, shapes. And the collaged images are chosen at random by first leafing through books and wondering what do I like? what do I like? what do I like? They are quickly, randomly, placed, glued, sprayed, wrinkled and smooshed down, my hands are in it, dirty, sticky, messy. It’s a fantastic way to spend some time.
When I was done I felt a certain kind of tired, a kind of spent, a kind of calm. And the finished piece felt scratchy and shiny and uneven and smooth.
And at the time, though it was not my intention, it was me, using imagery so out of character I was surprised to see it show up. Closing my eyes so I didn’t have to acknowledge the beautiful burdens that were crushing me, running fast enough to keep my hair flowing in the breeze toward some unknown, unseen, unnamed destination that would never be reached or revealed, always just off the side of the page. I was not a pink flower person, but I was a “task at hand followed by a task at hand followed by another and another onward and onward, sunset after sunset” person, complete with a little black dress because who doesn’t want the perfect work-to-nighttime look after a long day, right gals?
But when I revisit this later, it’s still scratchy and shiny and uneven and smooth. Somehow she shows me compassion, and I can write about how little I gave her, and how much I forced her to hide behind bright colors and paper flowers that were always heavier than they looked.
And today I can make mediocre watercolor about it - about the whole journey, when I created it in the first place and how I’ve changed since. The beginning and the middle of the ride so far. I’m not a better artist, but I’m better at this part. And when I come back to her next time she will tell me something different, because we will both be different.
And it will still feel scratchy and shiny and uneven and smooth.