On Birthing Art
The Sensitivity That Burns from the Inside Out
My parents knew from the beginning that I was an artist. It would’ve been hard to miss.
I drew on everything… walls, furniture, even my own skin. If it could hold a mark, I claimed it. It was how I communicated before I had language, and, because I was often told better to be seen and not heard, even after.
As I grew, and my obsession with mark-making (and truth-telling through art) deepened, my parents didn’t hesitate to share their concern.
Outside of being told I was wasting my time, my father told me I’d better get good at teaching how to draw, because the act of creating art itself, would never support me. Because I was a fat kid, and would likely turn into a fat adult, they were highly concerned about me being able to support myself.. I mean, it was obvious to them no one would love me and I’d end up alone. My father was especially clear about this.
My mother gave me two options: anatomical illustration (intellectual, respectable, Vassar-worthy: her dream) or animation at Disney World (palatable, commercial, easy to explain to the cousins and I could focus on drawing “happy” things). Both were ways to make my passion digestible and something she could brag about without shame. As I think of the days of applying to colleges… well, maybe someday I’ll have the courage to write about that.
Because I was raised to please, I kept all three options in mind. In college, while anatomical illustration wasn’t a specific major, I found a class that required us to dissect cadavers in order to study the human form. It felt like a rite of passage. After all, Michelangelo had done the same and I’d been copying his work out of the Encyclopedia Britannica since middle school. I said Encyclopedia Britannica. (where is the “how much longer do I have left” emoji?)
What brings me to writing this today, is that I’m currently deep inside a creative process that demands something entirely different.
This work asks me to close my eyes, be still, listen and to FEEL.
I think an artists work requires them to be utterly alive. Present.
A friend asked me this morning how I felt about this project, and I told her:
“We all have our gifts. I think this is mine.”
In some ways, it feels like time travel, or meditation, but it’s also a kind of double bind. I have to be radically present in my body, while simultaneously traveling inward/outward to constellations I haven’t yet mapped. I say constellations, because I wrote about connecting stars yesterday. That’s what creatives do, you know. We connect stars in galaxies far, far away.
Because of my upbringing, and the fact that what I do isn’t linear or logical (it’s something else entirely) I question my sanity on a daily basis. Also, because of my upbringing, my work is not linear or logical.
Yesterday I found myself thinking about a drawing I made last fall. At the time, I couldn’t put words to what I was feeling. The image came to me in a moment of deep distress, while feeling unseen, misunderstood, and emotionally exiled.
I was surrounded by people who hadn’t traveled to the places I had and therefore couldn’t understand the terrain I was in. Some had no interest in trying. Others were simply unequipped. I sat in that familiar space: debating whether to speak up or let it go. Whether to explain or self-protect or who cares anyways.
I was so frustrated that, much like my childhood self, I reached for a pencil.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the creative process, about being an artist, and about what it means to see and be seen. I’ve been thinking about performance (including my own), solitude, loss and what it means to feel whole.
I think about a quiet and grounded kind of knowing that I can be alone and complete. That I don’t have to contort myself to be accepted. That there is a place in the world for who I actually am, as is, starting right here, in my studio nest.
In my last Substack piece, I called this orphaned sovereignty. It’s a phrase that doesn’t come from clinical diagnosis, but from the kind of psychoanalytic circles where mythology and lived experience overlap. I don’t actually belong to any of those circles and if they don’t exist, they should.
Yes, you can have parents and still be an orphan.
I do not advise.
All this to say: my senses are on.
It’s a very sensitive place to live and one that requires a lot of quiet and a lot of space. It’s not always comfortable, but it’s honest and mine.
When I look back on the darkest time, the years of struggling, shape-shifting and surviving, I see that they built the version of me who can sit in the dark without flinching.
I hope this isn’t toxic positivity kind of thinking. I just know it feels good to see both the light and the dark, to hold both, and to no longer be afraid.
If this resonates…
You’re not alone. Some of us weren’t made to fit the mold. We were made to remake the mold into something that can hold us. If you’re one of those people, welcome. I see you.
Leave a comment, share your story, or forward this to someone who needs it.
And if you want to follow along as I keep writing from the scar, the spell, the studio, subscribe below.
🖤
Dealing with that raw pain is leading you to growth and deeper beauty, just like in your garden. Unfortunately, not everyone sees us or understands and accepts us as we are, but I still believe that it is their loss. They are missing out and have no idea what they cannot see. Likely, they never will get it. At 64, I have finally started to understand this and stopped trying to fit into their tiny boxes they have allotted for me. They have no idea how we continue to grow and stretch without them. That feels ok. Good even. Because we have found and are still finding our people. People who see us, get us, appreciate us and don’t expect us to fit in the tiny boxes that were never really meant for us. The best part of the journey is discovering we really are fine on our own, as you so eloquently said. Their predictions for us are what made them feel better about themselves and really, who cares what they think our thought. Their approval is not necessary. It is really our own approval of ourselves that matters.
Love you, Ann. Keep blooming and growing. You are amazing!🩷🩷🩷