scripture
The stories that are written into our bodies
your body
your body is an accumulation of experiences. stored in your posture, your bones, your tissues. every cell is a letter in a story, simultaneously read and written.
subdued blues
I could have kept it just like this. She looks so peaceful, so perfect. But she also looks asleep, removed, unalive.
Underneath this base is a story waiting to come out. I did not plan this piece whatsoever, it simply grew around itself and I learned from what I painted.
Initially, she reminded me of flowing water. So I thought to put her on the bottom of a riverbed. This was also a familiar composition, I had done rock paintings before.
These neons would be the underpainting and then I would give nice browns and greens into the river rocks, flowing water over her.
But even now, she is surrounded by words. Look at the little canvas next to her….
initial attempts…
Trying to understand skin tone, she came out so bland looking, all of the depth was lost. I realized the rocks were almost like a dungeon, and instead of floating horizontal I realized her as vertical, growing like a flower. I craved the neon and color variance, but instead of belonging in the background it was supposed to be in her skin. So I created another layer of neon undertones for the skin (see below)
she was in a dungeon
and you set her free into the sky
The deep hues are really what begin to give her structure and that supple, fleshy feel.
We cannot ever be afraid to explore new things for fear of leaving what we have in this moment. This is true for art also, we cannot get stuck in the feeling of “I might mess it up” because there is always more for us to learn and explore.
This is what I mean when I say I let the work speak to me. I respond to something inside the image, it tickles my brain and my eyes and tells me what to do, or at least pushes me in some sort of direction.
I got inspired by this artist on instagram to write behind the work, and I tried to use my best penmanship.
It looked horrible.
I realized my messy, wild handwriting was really where the beauty occurred. So I covered it and began again.
colors are hard….
The disruption in these colors is palpable. Don’t worry, I learned from this too. She shifts again.
But I feel like every time she strays too close to realism, she loses her soul. She shakes it off every time, even if I try to constrict her into being a “Real” looking thing.
so close…
And so far
What connects her to the background?
What makes her a part of the writing, and not just a lady floating around in space with some letters?
At this stage I did have a revelation and sat staring at her laughing and realizing how beautiful she was, and how I should never doubt my work. I hated her often during this, I felt like I had failed her somehow by changing her too much.
Never listen to those things. A woman does not exist to be the same all the time.
After this, she breaks free. And after this, I break free and move to the desert.
Before I even knew I was moving, she acquired this gorgeous pink tone, which I now realize to be of the desert.
stories of the desert
And then one night she fully shifted.
That face, that beautiful face, I wanted to put a spider on it. Like the big gorgeous banana spiders we used to find in Guam.
Because why does she have to be a pretty thing just floating around?
Because these things that we are afraid of, snakes and spiders, these dark things that the world tells us are so terrible and shameful and that we are not allowed to have or embody, these are actually beautiful and powerful.
And so the piece became about how the things that seem to cause you fear can instead become a source of power. Because all of the words printed behind her grew from seeds planted in the dark soil of fear, and they sprouted in the waters of my tears, and then bloomed in the sunlight of my understanding.
And now I know that she needs some cacti behind her. Because, the desert, where I ended up.
It’s almost like she beckoned me here.