A friend referred to my writing as “raw”. She meant gritty and exposed, not undercooked and difficult to digest. But lately, all the adjectives apply…more to life than words.
“You just need to lock yourself in your studio for a few weeks and figure it out” Tom said. On some levels, that’s an attractive option. The full on absorption, the frenzy of intensity, the point where you bring yourself to the brink, and you either push through it, or drink yourself into oblivion… I remember those days. I was 20 something. I often pushed through it, but sometimes I welcomed the oblivion.
I don’t feel like solitude is my answer anymore, and the idea of a drunken stupor no longer serves me. I am not interested in isolation; I am interested in consumption, …and digestion. I want the education I missed, a long time ago. But it has not come easily, and I’m about to put myself out there – perhaps a little ‘raw’.
It’s unsettling. And scary. And at the moment I want to call the whole thing off. I was building my confidence – telling myself that no one paints like me, my brush stroke is my signature – I’m not going for formal portraits in a 30 minute sitting – it’s more of a fun and interesting experience – and art is part of it . As I’m writing my ‘rawness’ this email popped into my box. I painted her son last week… “he looks a little like Sloth from the Goonies to us, can you redo it?” Wow,… ‘Sloth, from the goonies’… I don’t even know who the hell that is, but it can’t be good.
How do I get from ‘raw’ to ‘well done’? …or even medium well would satisfy me at the moment. … Perhaps I should focus on crocheting tissue box cozies and call it a day.
I’m headed to the assisted living home, where lots of people will sit for me, and there is no pressure to do anything. I’ll go enjoy myself and hopefully leave with a more bountiful view of the life I have left to live.