Who Am I, Where Should I Go?

I'm considering applying for membership at a museum. There are two levels, one for the emerging artist and one for the established artist. For the emerging artist, they are seeking artists who wish to gain exposure, grow and improve his/her artistic talent. That applies to me. The next level for established artists, are artists established ("known" artists), who have exhibited extensively, with solo shows, and have gotten lots of press. Also that they teach in their medium. All these also apply to me. So, if the question is whether or not I'm done experimenting and am a landscape artist with my only interest being to improve my landscape techniques, then no, that absolutely does not apply to me. I don't plan on ever settling into one little comfortable area of painting and stay there. I do collage, I paint, I experiment A LOT and that's actually what I plan to do for the rest of my career. So, yeah, not sure which one to apply for.

Another thought. I'm established in South Jersey, and have been for many years. I'm emerging at the shore towns. I'm emerging in Philly. I'm emerging as a muralist. I'm well established as a painter. I am becoming well established with collage and mixed media. I am emerging with my 3-d works. I am well established as a teacher. See what I mean? These labels are confusing and if there's no realistic set of "rules" to describe these terms, to me, they don't really mean anything.

The cycle of preparing work for shows to fit a certain theme, then attending the shows and winning an award, then picking up unsold work from the show. I've had several all-night painting marathons lately in an attempt to get ready for various shows. A few years ago, this was what I wanted. I am thrilled at what I have accomplished, very pleased. Now I kind of have a feeling of "what now"? I need a new goal, something new to reach for.

I have a series of non-traditional portraits rolling around in my head for years. I think next year, I may go a little light on the exhibiting, not dropping out altogether, though. Maybe I'll concentrate on this series that's in my head. Do 20 or so throughout the year, then see where that takes me. It makes me nervous to start something with no real goal in mind, but with this, I think I need to find opportunities for the series after it's complete. It would be a nice change to follow my vision, not creating around a show's theme, or creating a mural in a library that has kids reading books. That's all good stuff, but I can work with no restrictions for a while. I like that idea. I think.


Emotionally, I've been doing very well. Extremely well, dare I say. It always makes me nervous-'when will I crash?' But that's why it's important to do as much as I can when I can, and I have been doing just that.

I have two receptions in Ocean City where my work is in two shows at two different galleries and one in Bridgeton tomorrow night. I've been notified that I've placed in the Bridgeton show, though I won't know what award until the awards ceremony. It's a purchase prize for this show, the prize money is to purchase the piece for the county's art collection, which is pretty cool. I think I have at least 6 pieces in their collection so far. Tomorrow will be a busy night.

What I'm working on: Day of the Dead inspired Holiday plates

text collage with acrylic paint:
"Rain V"

and the piece that I'm won with, a landscape, which I haven't done in ages. It was a nice break:

And today is my birthday! I wore a raspberry beret. The kind you find at a second hand store:

So tomorrow night, after the receptions, I think Bob and I will unwind and go to Millville and hang out with some musician friends, and enjoy ourselves for the rest of the evening.

Frustration

I try to stay positive. I'm afraid this blog is going to be mostly complaining, however. Nothing is working. By the end of this week, I will have delivered work for two shows so far this season. A third show I was planning on participating in hasn't worked out. I just can't get anything to work. Painting is going too slow, I keep starting over, I just can't pull it together. It doesn't feel like creative block, exactly, I feel good about my concepts and when I begin a piece I have that burning flame deep within my belly, the excitement of creation unlike anything else. Half way in, however, I hate what I've done so far and begin again or abandon the project.

On top of being stuck in artistic molasses, our apartment was sprayed so I had to remove everything from our closets and cupboards and pull everything away from the walls. I should be putting all that we own back in its place as I write, but I just don't seem to have it in me right now. There's doctor's appointments, social obligations, and daily chores and errands, as there is with everyone in the world. The socializing usually gets put on the back burner because it's a non-essential, but I'm changing my attitude about that. Networking has gotten me twice as far as I could have alone, and I truly believe you get out of life what you put into it. I need to nurture my relationships, meet new people, and on occasion, enjoy myself. So, tonight, I will attend my film making friend's zombie makeup party, and tomorrow night I will go to the monthly artists' night at another friend's home. It's all good stuff, but add it all up and it equals maybe an hour or two to paint a day, and I can't get very far that way.

We're trying to plan a wedding, I'm dress shopping at the beginning of November. My fiance is on temporary disability due to his bipolar and it's running out very soon. Not that we're "making it" on what he receives now, but once it's gone, we're in trouble. The plan was to paint my ass off this fall, save what I make for the wedding, and make wedding plans and relax some until May. Our bills are so far behind, I won't be able to save anything, especially when I can't find the time to paint in the first place. I try to remember that plans that I've made have never worked out, but usually what has actually happened has been as least as good as my original ideas, so allowing life to take shape without me controlling every aspect isn't a bad thing.

There's the issue of money, and more accurately, entitlement. I find myself in this "poor me" thought process. 'Why should I have to struggle to pay my bills just because I'm sick?' 'I work twice as hard as so-and-so, and look at all that they have.' 'If I could control my emotions, with my drive, determination, and talent, I could be (rich, important, etc.,) by now.' 'It's not fair that because my wiring is screwed up, I have to live in poverty.' I don't like myself very much when I find my thoughts wandering in that direction. I am not entitled to anything. I have many wonderful things in my life, I am a truly blessed person. Having money does absolutely, positively, not equal happiness. I've chosen to pursue my art. I don't regret that decision. All decisions have good and bad that comes along with them, and this decision was never about money.

I think I need to take some time to rethink where I'm going. A couple of years ago, I was intent on getting into as many shows as possible, winning awards, selling pieces, getting "known". I'm in the same place now, but I feel that I've accomplished those goals. I don't plan on quitting shows and competitions, but I think it's time to come up with some new objectives. I'm trying to see my current creative retardation as a sign, from God, the universe, my subconscious...A nudge to branch out, to find something else to work for. When I think about it, I've achieved a great deal in a short period of time, and if I am anything, I'm driven. I'm just not sure where I should go next.

The prospect of coming up with new goals, experiencing new things, excites me. Failure doesn't scare me, I guess because I've never failed. I don't mean that I've always acheived what I've wanted, or that all that I've tried to do has worked out. Not by any means. When I fall short, when goals aren't met, I see it as a learning experience. (I apologize for sounding like a motivational poster.) I don't consider trying for something and not making it as failure.

I think maybe I feel a little better just for having written this. Sometimes I know how to deal with a situation, but until I talk it out or write it down, I don't realize it. Something about putting it all into words. I'm still very frustrated by the mountain of work ahead of me, but I've scaled, moved, and sometimes blown mountains to smitherines, so I know I can do it. And hey, I'm not feelilng too bad emotionally, and ANYTHING is better than being depressed.

"Season's Greetings", painted wooden plate

What I'm working on: I call them non-traditional holiday accent pieces. I am so not into pretty Christmas decorations, so I'm creating a series of painted plates, small canvases, and ornaments for the hipster set. Inspired by Day of the Dead sugar skulls, there's gingerbread men skeletons, a human skull with a santa hat, and candy canes for cross bones. They're bright and colorful, and although they're not for everyone, I can't think of anything more festive. I love bones. I collect bones and use them in my work. Painting them is fun, it doesn't take a lot of thought, and I can play with the colors and patterns and still be reasonably sure that I'll be happy with the results.

Ghosts

My mother says she knew when I was 2 that something was wrong with me. I was intense. I felt everything deeply. There was no whimsical childhood. When she tucked me into bed at night, I would tell her one of two things; either it had been the best day of my life or the worst day of my life. I don't remember too much about my childhood, but I do remember feeling nervous all the time.

As a young teen, I was depressed, and I constantly had anxiety gnawing at my gut. The depression wasn't too bad at that time, I had a lot of friends, did pretty well in school, and the depressed mood came and went. But the anxiety. Every moment of everyday for years. I think the first time I saw my family doctor for my emotional issues was when I was 15. That began a lifelong string of psychiatrists, mood stabilizers, antidepressants, therapists, and eventually, hospitalizations. I don't remember when I received my diagnosis. Sometimes it feels like the doctor who delivered me must have held me up and said, 'Congratulations. It's a mentally ill baby girl.'

The meds are a bitch. There's always side effects, and antidepressants occasionally stop working so there's a need to switch to another one. I wonder who I would be without them. I think about that a lot. I doubt I would be as tired all the time. I doubt I would be as fat. I have the memory of someone in their 60s who privately wonders if they're aging normally or developing Alzheimers. I know my memory problems are not completely due to the medication, but I doubt it's helping. It's been 20 years of different combinations of those colorful handfuls I swallow every night. Bipolars are infamous for going off their meds without doctor's consent and making the evening news. I can hear my mother cry at the thought of it and Bob running for cover, so I can't take the gamble.

The most drastic treatment I've received was in 2005. A summers-long, thrice weekly series of ECT, AKA electroconvulsive treatments, AKA shock therapy. There are many people who have been helped greatly by ECT and I'm sure it's saved lives. It helped me-it cured my depression for a year and a half. There was quite a cost, however, and I'm still not sure if it was the right choice or if I'd do it again.

I had been in the pit for over a year. All other treatments had been exhausted. The procedure itself was, to me, terrifying, though I'm not sure why. There was no pain, except for a headache when I awoke in recovery. The staff at the particular hospital administering the ECT was incredible. There was no talking down to me, using small words because if one is mentally ill then obviously they're not very bright, (I really hate that), they were patient and kind and professional.

My fear had to do with the room. It was more like a cubicle. A tiny, white, sterile cubicle just big enough for my bed, the doctor, a nurse, an anesthesiologist, and the machine. It felt like a horror movie to me. Maybe the fact that everyone was so friendly and there was nothing overtly terrifying made it worse. Kind of like the creepy guy that hangs around the playground. There's nothing obviously wrong with him, he seems nice, but...

Gel was put on my head so the "zappers" (to use the technical term) could make contact. A mouth guard was put on my chest, so once I was under it could be placed in my mouth to prevent me from biting my tongue or breaking my teeth when my jaw clenched. The doctor and the nurse would quietly go over my chart, whispering numbers. I knew they were deciding how much electricity, based upon earlier procedures, to pass through my brain to cause a seizure. The anesthestiologist (she always sang while she worked, I liked her), would inject the medication into my IV, I would taste something bitter, and I'd be out. Next thing I knew I was in recovery and a nurse was asking me if I would like a ham and cheese or pb&j sandwich. I had to know what year it was, where I was, and I had to eat something before I was released. The headache wasn't bad, just a dull ache for a couple of hours. My mother drove me to the hospital and home again, a 2 1/2 hour ride one way, that whole summer. She has been my angel on many occasions throughout my life. I would sleep all the way home and most of the remainder of the day.

Every psychiatrist I have talked to prior and since has told me the amnesia is temporary, all memories should return to normal within 6 months. Not the case with me. I know I am crazy, I know I take a lot of pills, I know I have anxiety, and I know all those things can contribute to memory problems. The ECT caused me to lose large portions of my life, and it makes me angry when a professional tries to tell me otherwise. My heart breaks when I realize I remember almost nothing about my son's younger years. He's only 12. The three years prior to ECT are almost all gone. Significant places, people, and events that my family and friends would bring up, sometimes within months of the procedures, are no longer in my hard drive, at least not where I can access them. I've forgotten people that I knew fairly well, and when I see them in public and they speak to me like an old friend, I don't know what to say. For a few months following the procedures, I would get lost driving in the town that I lived in for over 30 years.

It seems anyone who has an opinion about ECT has a strong one. I hope I never have to do it again, the price I paid was incredibly high.

Since then, I've been working on this painting thing. There are times when it feels I'm pushing a boulder up a hill for days, and there are times when I'm downright loony tunes. Mostly, however, I seem to be okay. Knowing myself and my moods helps greatly. It's okay to have a few wasted days, it's part of the illness. I couldn't forgive myself for that in the past and I would end up in a cycle of guilt for being "lazy", depression, guilt, etc. I'm much better at writing off a day and trying again tomorrow.

It may sound strange, but I love my life. I love all of it, but it's been war. Everyday I show up. Through the tears, exhaustion, lack of motivation. I show up. I create. I push forward, even if it's a tiny little bit, everyday. The fighting has made me who I am, and the notion that those who suffer from mental illness are weak...well, let me just say that I am one tough chick. Remind me to tell you sometime about the guy who tried to mug me in the alleyway a couple of years ago.

What I'm working on: This is the crazy time of year. I have a total of 7 shows I'm preparing for, all due by November 1st, with two of them due the first week of October. And, of course, I'm determined to submit all new work. I'm also teaching an 8-week class that begins next Tuesday. I'm overwhelmed and anxious, but also very excited. I have two photoshoots tomorrow for model references for a couple of pieces, and most of the planning for the work is done. The possibility that exists in a blank canvas fills me with this sense of joyous mystery. I need to hang on, I need to be well, at least until Christmas. Bob takes my work almost as seriously as I do and he's wonderful at getting me up, getting me dressed, and getting me to the gallery sometimes despite my best attempts to give up. I am a very fortunate woman, there is so much good in my life.

Poetry, Paintings, and Passion

Long day. I've been up for about 46 hours. Tonight, I went to a friend's art opening at a new gallery. It was fantastic. Then, to poetry open mic at the local coffee house. I love it there. I love to hear Bob read, he is a good poet, and great speaker. Many times his work is about me, and girls love that kind of stuff. The coffee house is our family, the gathering of our tribe of misfit toys. I truly love these people, feel accepted, and supported.

Tomorrow, the opening of a show in Philly, in which I had three pieces accepted. My first time showing there, and I understand the juror for the show isn't an easy one, which is how I think it should be. I am proud, a little nervous, and feel very grateful because many of my friends are going to support me. Bob pushed me to get the work done for this show, and encouraged me, and a few times forbid me from giving up on it. I think he's more thrilled about it than I am. We found out this evening that for reasons beyond our control, he can't make the opening. We're deeply disappointed. He worked as hard as I did for this one, and he deserves to be there. I want him there.

It's funny how I can straighten myself up and go to the gallery and to a poetry reading and no one has any clue that I've spent my day crying. I didn't actually feel too bad today, I've done a much more amazing job socially on much worse days, and I do actually feel better after I get out and about. Usually. The gallery has me inspired, the creative fire is burning. I need sleep now, so I'm hoping I can keep it at a simmer until Sunday when I have time to sit down and do some work.

Working on: Nothing. I can't let myself feel the creative flow right now, I need my sleep so I can attend the reception tomorrow night. Off to bed.

What It's Like

This blog is my way to document, share, and sometimes purge myself of this creative life of mine.

I am an artist. I never chose to be an artist. I was an artist when I was 2, when I was 8, 10, 15, 22, 31, and now, at age 35, I am more artist than ever. If I had to work a nine to five, at which I would not be very good, I would still be an artist.

I am also bipolar. There has been much said and written over artists with unstable mental conditions. It's become a joke, "those crazy artists". Certainly, they are generalizations, not all artists are crazy, or suffer from mental illness. Although there is some truth to it. I've read lots of art history and I have many artist, musician, and poet friends, and I must say, I believe there is a higher level of "quirkiness" among us than among the less-creative types. Maybe I can help clear up why a little bit, and maybe we can stop whispering about someone's bipolar disorder, or anxiety, or clinical depression, and find out what it's really like, what those who are mentally ill are really like, and why the crazies seem to go so nicely with a blank canvas and brushes loaded with paint.

So, here it is, what it's like for me. My "illness", (though I don't like that term), seems inseparable from my work. I tend to run in fairly quick cycles. I was down a couple of weeks ago. More down than I had been in a year. Physically aching, crying from a black sense of grief impossible to completely feel. Colors greyed, I hid from the monsters I perceived, incorrectly, to be external. My brain knew all the things it knew the day before: I have several shows coming up, and the idea of creating new work for them is very exciting to me. I had just received a shipment from Dick Blick-brand new paints, fresh canvases. Better than Christmas morning. I knew that my fiance, Bob, loves me very much, and would do anything to help me. I knew that I like the small apartment we share, it's colorful and there's room and time to create, and it feels more like home than a home ever has to me. My life is good, and I have the talent, potential, and drive to make it progressively better. I knew all those things.

It is so confusing when my brain is telling me that my hair is rotting and the follicles will decay my brain if I don't cut all my hair off. Bob hides the scissors.

(That's an image of a painting of a brain I did called "Yet the Soul Eludes Us".  Below is annoyed Bob, after having to hide all the scissors.)

I know it's not true, but I feel my child is dead. I see him in his coffin, an image so detailed and realistic, it's as if I'm looking at a photograph. I know he's with my parents, swimming, enjoying his summer. I resist the urge to call to hear his voice. He's heard enough of his mother's crying in his short life. To distract myself from the images in my head, (my shrink calls them intrusive thoughts), I decide to check my email. There's a news story about a country on the other side of the world where several children died. My gut churns because I killed those kids. Wait, what? How can that be? I know that's ridiculous, do you hear yourself? The knowing can't stop the feeling, and the guilt of murdering innocents is too much to handle right now.

The dishes haven't been done in days, I've been eating tortilla chips and apples because it takes all of my physical strength to pick up a bag or open the refrigerator door. This place looks like a crack house.

I drag myself off to bed. I should pee first, but it's not an emergency, and I can't find the energy. I lie down on top of the clothes strewn about the bed, and sleep for another 14 hours.

When I wake up, I feel worse than before. I sit in the corner and sob. It's a cold, grieving feeling that runs through me. I'm amazed, once again, at just how sad I am. Shrinks call it "painful thinking". Every thought, everything I see or hear, hurts. No matter how practical an object may be. I can look at a pencil, and it's as if the emotional energy it took to recognize it as a pencil left a pit of grief within me. Music is the worst when I'm in this state. Music can be quite emotional anyway, when I'm like this, I can't bear to hear music. It will send me to the floor, sobbing. Again.

I notice someone has turned a light on. I'm the only one in the room. It's my vision that has come back to normal. The smokey veil of gray is gone. I feel okay. I think I can stand up.  I go to the bathroom and wipe the tears off my face, comb my hair, brush my teeth. Wow, this place is a mess-I'm going to clean it up as fast as I can so I can get to work on my painting. The depression has lifted, just like that, in an instant. Is it a miracle? A chemical change within me? Some environmental factor that we don't yet understand? I don't know, but I know it may not last long, so I need to get to work fast, and work hard.

Sketching, gathering ideas for some new pieces, the preliminary of the preliminary. Not much is going on, my muse seems to have left me for the day. I see something-a photo, a color, a line of text, and I get an idea. Another idea springs out of the original. I sketch them both. A tangent forms, then a tangent from a tangent, to a branch of brilliant, creative tangents. I sketch as fast as I can. I have to capture every single thought and they are flying. I go back and add a note to this one, change a layout over here, and a new batch arises. Brilliance, every one.

I understand why some believe that the artist is a conduit, I can feel the supernatural force I met as a child expressing its beauty through me. I must capture each and every image, every one is greatness and necessary to humanity. If I neglect to write one down, it's lost forever. The ultimate in truth and beauty, glory, and no one but me can bring it to the world. It is my duty, it will change the world. I write feverishly, covering page after page, notebook after notebook, (shrinks call it hypergraphia), transcribing for my deity who has given me this superhuman task. Joy and energy surges through me, I am sure that I am visibly glowing. Something I've drawn strikes me as funny, but I'm not sure why. Everything is funny. Outrageously funny. I laugh and laugh and laugh until I literally throw up.

Hypomania usually only lasts for a couple of hours for me. I haven't experienced a full-blown manic episode since I was a young adult. Mania feels better than other human experience you can have, and it left me homeless, broke, and pregnant somewhere far away from anyone who could help me.

I've described the extreme ends of the spectrum on the bipolar coaster. There are many times, more than not, that I'm "normal". I am logical, I cry because there's a reason to cry, I laugh because there's a reason to laugh, I sketch out my designs quickly at first, then go back and modify until I have a completed, well-thought-out drawing. I worry about my son because I'm his mother, but my thoughts aren't inundated with horrible mental pictures of terrible things that have happened to him. I don't think my brain is going to rot. I clean my home, I cook, I sleep 8-10 hours a day, although sleeping is never predictable, no matter what state I'm in. I still have what I call a "thin emotional skin". Most people may hear a sad song, feel slightly melancholy for a moment, and get on with it. Hearing a song that really upsets me (and many of them do for no seemingly good reason), I have to remove myself. All day, even on a "normal" day, I live a series of deep ups and downs, heartaches and griefs, and joys and passions that would not be considered normal to someone without the illness. They seem normal to me because I can function just fine in this state, and when I consider the more extreme highs and lows, I can live with them. More than that, I am thankful for them. It's exhausting, but without this emotional hypersensitivity, I wouldn't be able to not just see, but "feel" the particularly golden glow in a shade of green and translate it to canvas to evoke that emotion in others.

I am constantly frustrated by the limitations of language to describe emotion. It's like trying to explain what a rainbow looks like to someone with a black and white line drawing.

Bipolar disorder and my creativity are so much a part of me, and part of each other, I don't believe there is a line between them.

Currently working on: A new website: Check out the link on this page to see my online portfolio, my bio, upcoming shows, etc.

Also-Trying to finish a painting for my son I was supposed to give him for Christmas last year. It's a little late. He picked the subject, a pop art type piece with a Big Mac, fries, and a drink. This is a favorite piece of his, so I'm using it as a reference. It's called "America Runs on Caffeine and Sugar."