Sharpie marker + pencil + acrylic on canvas
48" x 60"
A lifetime ago (I love saying that), a longterm relationship fell apart in the most brutal of ways. I can't talk about it anymore, it's so irrelevant to my life now, and this is a mostly good times blog! But, the split and how it happened and how I suffered defined me for years. That's no good. As I've mentioned in some previous posts, it was the best thing that ever happened to me, in the long run. And it left me with the knowledge that "I've been through stuff like this before, I can handle it", which helps when times get tough in the real world.
This piece was something I worked on right after the storm that was the end of that relationship hit. I can't believe I was able to be conscious enough to do this. It's a little "out-of-body-experience-meets-PTSD", or something like that, when I try to remember what it was like working on it.
I never have been able to draw or paint faces. I wish I could. What a gift that is. So, the omission of my head was not meaningful at first, it was just as far as I could get successfully with my self portrait. I've always said that my botanical work and this piece are so very similar. They are true to scale, and they are repetitive. A brilliant analogy I arrived at when being interviewed about this work (a lifetime ago).
The text repeats, over and over, "He didn't love me enough".
Only one time, scribbling this over and over, did I make a mistake. Somewhere in the top right hand corner I wrote "He didn't want me enough". That mistake bothered the perfectionist in me a lot, until one day at an open studio event my former flamenco instructor Yaelisa pointed out to me the idea of the "deliberate mistake", purportedly used in the quilt and rug making of some cultures. Myth or no myth, that was good enough for me to let that one go.
My mistake resides somewhere up in that white circle.
This piece was hanging in the bedroom for a long time after I met David, got married, and had Stella. After I met David, none of this really mattered anymore, and I never looked at it again as a painful memory, just as a reminder of a time where I had the time to work on a piece like this, and how I am capable of doing the work I want to do. I took it down when Stella was around three years old. No need for her to be wondering about all this business, yet.