New painting in progress
Most of the time I'm on the verge tears. Or in tears. On the train. In my studio. On the sidewalk. But, no longer on the verge of coming apart. No longer fighting to put the shotgun down. I am resigned to the fact that I will live until someone or something else takes my life.
One of the worst things in life is to get what you want. You often find that it does nothing to alleviate that want: the lack, the hunger, the whatever it is you thought would be filled by that thing or person or activity or recognition you thought you wanted. I've read a lot about how others suggest navigating that want. Books and books. And none of the answers ring true. It's always some version of the same: a renunciation, a carpe deum, or a flat out escape into things or bodies or drugs or whatever that are more or less real and offer more or less real, but always transitory, redemption.
I'm partial to the last option. I love being lost in another, or a promise, or a dance, or a whatever. And I do find myself there. My world seems bigger with more possibilities and creativity. But these days I am encountering the very real thing that there is no redemption. That those tears and loss, that rupture, is just always there. No matter what. And it's almost irrelevant. It doesn't hurt any less. It doesn't change the desire for an end of desire, or an end of life. Maybe it's just that I am finally tired of running.
Wounded people seem to like me. They seek me out. Somehow they know or sense something. Maybe they just want to talk to someone broken who doesn't mind. I don't know really. I appreciate it though. I prefer people who no longer believe in themselves or their culture or the lies we tell in order to live. I prefer people who are on the verge of loosing hope. Who are learning to live with it.
I like to think it's because something in me, or in my small voice, or my quiet work says something to them like, “it doesn't matter. It isn't okay. It just doesn't matter.” Maybe it's obvious to them that I carry around a heaviness that doesn't feel heavy. I don't know.
Anyway, all of this is just to say that I've been able to spend more time in the studio and less time looking for existential meaning in places where it doesn't exist, which is funny, because that's all I've wanted for years and years now, to able to be in my studio working and reading and writing and not out in the world desperately looking for things that aren't there.
I don't really get it. Maybe it's because I am alone for the first time in over a decade. Maybe it's this place, this other country. Maybe it's just another turn in some old tragedy I've yet understand. Who cares.
Here a snapshot of a painting I'm working on. There's not much point to talk about what it's talking about. It comes down death, desire, loss, and maybe a little bit of dancing. What more is there to say?