An Artist without a Studio

I took twenty minutes yesterday at lunch to sit in my sort of empty studio.

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Oh lord, I have missed this space!

 

 

I struggled when I first gave up my downtown studio space, but over the years I have created spaces in my home to work and store art pieces.  Recently, I have had to crate and boxed up my supplies, projects, and books stacked them on and around my desk. All pushed against the easel wall.

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Truthfully, thought I could survive construction, but it’s all kind of getting to me. I have been feeling the lack of order for a couple of weeks, yet this week it has hit me the hardest.

This not having a set place to paint and write.  One where I can create and leave my mess until I can come back to it.

Maybe it’s the lack of mid-day re-set. The hour I took before my boys went on summer vacation and before construction started.  That time of day where I could stare at the canvas, the note-book, and/or the garden – quite creative listening.

It might be different if there wasn’t some sort of improved in every room of my house but there is which I am in creditably grateful to have the ability to make these improvements. However, it is wearing on my creative soul.

I tried to paint in the garage, but now it’s to sticky out and well the tools and supplies of the remodel have slowly taken over and it pulls out of my zone.

I have attempted a few spots out and about to sketch and work, but it’s not the same. For me art is not just about the production is the process the movement that runs through my entire body and sometimes when there is the possibility of an audience, that freedom is stifled.

While I sat on the wood floor, staring at the plywood on the south wall where there was once a window. I look the left out the broken east window and envision the glass doors that will soon be there letting in all the east sun. I can see the shelving. The unpacked brushes and books all able to breathe.  I can see where the tracking lighting will go and the sink where I will clean my brushes.20180724_074201

I see the improved wall easel and the future creative moments, with new fresh energy.  All these things I have envisioned while I saved and sacrificed for will be worth it.

And in the meantime, I need to find a place to let loose and make some art.

Art keeps me balanced and without it is like a part of me is missing.

I am an artist in limbo.

Inspiration

Where does inspiration stem from?

It comes from all sorts of places, but mainly it should come from within.

I see things all the time that give me inspiration that make me want to produces better clearer art.

The lighting at a concert, golden hour, or the light beaming in threw my studio windows.

 

The sound of the rain falling on the glass table and the flower blooming in my garden.

There are melodies that control my brush strokes.

Lyrics that form shapes and colors.

People that invoke energy;  sensations that are both good and bad.

Art is trying to create balance between words and the images as they come, knowing that logic and emotions have a dance that doesn’t always make sense.

I produce art to answer only my questions;  my art is for my souls, and the hope is simply that someone else can relate and appreciate the story being explored.

 

Change and begin again

Sometimes when I am stuck I have to begin again…

Stop giving to others.

Find my center and than fucking breathe.

Stop fucking holding it in

Stoo holding it fucking back

Focus on the center;

that breath;

Say I am… and chase the spinning words

What you touch yourself

What you touch yourself!?! – is the shocking response I get from men who find out that I masturbate.

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I am not sure why the expectations of masturbation are so different for woman than they are for men, but they are. Women are shamed for it or told that it’s not okay.

I figure when we encourage woman to self-explore it gives them power within their own sexual awareness.  They discover their likes and dislikes better, and if they can bring themselves to organism, they are less likely to make bad decisions when it comes to having a sexual partner.

I’m currently working on two separate paintings. One with is full of  women’s vulvas and their fingers, the working title is “self-teach” and the other is a grouping currently of two canvases with both a female and a male masturbating, the title is “Watch Me”

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The Self Touch painting is at this pointing, sitting unfinished because I am dealing with the personal shame surrounding my sexual knowledge, openness, and my exposure of my evolving work. I have let it sit on an easel while the rest of the painting presents its self to me. I’ve been reading several books Wet, A Decade of Negative Thinking, and Hot White Truth through these books I have been able to acknowledge my fears and work on furthering my path and desire for social change through both my writing and my art.

Over the weekend I was able to discuss my work and concept with a fellow artist. We discussed my new nickname and the local bar where I have been painting, which is the Pussy Painter.

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However, this nickname has created a buzz it has opened dialogue with the blue collar crowd. They have asked me very real questions about my art, my subject, and my concept as an artist. My favorite question so far has been “Are you just super horny?” No… Than a yes, accompanied by a laugh. Then I go into the theory behind my art.

We talked about the complexity of “Watch Me” that the pairing of the two makes the individual paintings stronger,  combined with the spaces I am working on these paintings, which is on the patio of a local bar makes for an added layer of complexity to the title of “Watch me”

We discussed the reasons as to why I choose to a paint these subjects in public places.

I even had a very gruff man say, although he wouldn’t seek out nude art, especially  male nudes he could say that this was a beautiful painting of a dick.

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The idea behind “watch me” stems from the trend of sexting and dating in 2017.

 

Relationships become virtual and lacks an organic connection. However, there is a sexual virtual connection between the two subjects this idea of strangers sharing this private act between one another while describing what they want the other to do to each other enhancing sexual stimulation both in their minds and genitals.  The climax is also different than masturbating alone because even though it’s self-inflected the desire was created by the interaction  and the experience was shared.  As the artist I get to a part of this intimate exchange the moment of “Watch me” and by taking out to the a public place to create it, I become the part of the subject as other strangers watch me bring out this private moment onto the canvas.  Again, it sparks conversation about self-pleasure, sharing it with others, and the most important part it opens up the conversations on sex positive.

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**all working is in progress

The last letter to him

May 10th, six days after he had shown up and feed me the same story, he called and yelled at me for about a post that had nothing to do with him. He told me that she was upset, but with no regard for what his drunk behavior does to my psyche. Below was my response because I didn’t get a chance before he hung up.

We have a pattern and I have tried to break it. All I’ve wanted in the last six months was for him to keep one promise to pay back the money he owed me for one of the many secrets I helped him keep.  I wanted it to be the one thing that he hadn’t lied to me about.

At 2am this morning, he showed up drunk in his usual fashion, singing the same song full of I love you’s and let’s fuck. I stood my ground and logic won over loneliness.

Perhaps it was the healing of a very old relationship that reminded me of the kind of love I wanted. And it’s not this because I deserve better and truthfully so does she.

May 10, 2017 – sent via text

Things I don’t publish, post about and haven’t ever told anybody… Just so you know. 

 

The night I was confronted with this situation.  I ran away from, only to get home to puke in my drive way and cried until my whole body hurt. I didn’t have anyone to lean for support. My friends told me I was an idiot if I believed you. Yes, I told her because I needed it to be over one way or another. That night and for several nights after I cried myself sick and then to sleep on the floor by my window. I couldn’t sleep on that mattress that smell like you. I wanted you to choose me because that would have made it real.

 

But could you ever be faithful?

 

I have cried until it hurts and scream at the universe. The feelings come in waves and it feels like I am drowning. Our experience touched me on a soul level that truly doesn’t have a term and I can’t put into words. I painted and wrote about us because I wanted to understand how we were so sexual connected. 

 

I want to feel that feeling all of the time. The “feeling” is associated with you for now, but with time it will fade into a fond memory. We don’t know if we would work in the real world because we never tried. 

 

You drink too much and I’m a smoke too much. We both like our freedoms. 

 

But in the end, I want a man who only desires me, who works hard and is devoted to my mind, my heart, and my body. As I will be with him. I want to live in bliss and sorrow as a team.

 

I don’t know what you really want. However, I am sure you know your action prove that you want to be where you are. I am hurt, but I will survive. I will grow, learn, and love again.

 

However, I have to write and paint because it’s who I am, part of the person you once said you loved. So you shouldn’t try to take that part of me away.  I know that you have asked me to hate you, but that’s not who I am either. I did want you to hurt, to be in pain and suffer like I was, but not permanently because I’ve seen a part of your soul that you don’t share with many people. That’s the part of you that I want you to nourish and grow.  You have to love yourself though before you can truly let anyone love you back. 

 

I know I shouldn’t send this, but you ask me not post. I write and paint for me and I share it because I work through so much alone that at least when I post it I feel heard and can release it. Too often in this world we don’t feel heard, because as people we listen to respond, and never hear the words that are being said. 

There is no plan, there is just right now

I am a planner. I plan out my life. After, I graduated from college, I figured out that the plan changes and that’s ok.

I have changed it, altered and moved it.  It’s a work in progress.

I survived marriage, a divorce, unemployment, heartbreak, and parenting

I learned to listen to my voice, even when no one else understood. I discovered that there are more free thinkers out there in the world.  I wasn’t looking in the right spot or I had become to shut off.

I know lots of things and at the same time feel like I know nothing.

Today, I realize there is no fucking plan, there is just right now!

Creativity and Sex

I was staring at this canvas that needed to be toned yellow in preparation for this painting on self-touch. Its whiteness mocks me.  I have been sitting on this idea, minimally sketching about it. I have been so lost with school. That I forgot to paint. I forgot the thing that makes sense to me. The NEED to create. I have been reading about why artists have made art. How to stop and really see?  What is considered art?  I have been introduced to feminist artists, which I might be more like then I thought.

I have abstained from sex and men kind of in general.

I had a mean girl’s night.

I have masturbated.

I have read blogs and found people who I can discuss sexuality and creativity with. They seem to understand that these two parts are connected.   They get how these two are so intertwined.

There was a point where I couldn’t focus. I wanted to quit, to give up. I wanted to have sex to clear the chaos that was running through my brain. I want to get lost in something that made me feel amazing.  I even trolled my phone for about twenty minutes for someone to call or text. I couldn’t do it. I finally felt like my heart and vagina have found some common ground.

I was stressed and I want to touch a man. I wanted to feel his warmth, feel his body, his touch and his smell. I wanted to exchange energy and body fluids. I wanted to connect to someone new in real life and not online, not in a text, but letting someone new in scares the fucking shit out of me.

Instead of texting…

Instead of calling…

Instead of letting someone new in…

Right here in this studio, where I had wept over school and life. I laid out a blanket. I turned off the light. The room glowed from the candles that were lit in the window ledges and on the desk. I turned on the sounds of crystal bowls. I laid on the floor, stared at the sketches of my vagina on the wall. There are a few with my fingers, one with a dildo, one that’s a close-up of my clitoris.

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I took a deep breath, little coconut oil and began to message around my vagina, I rubbed my labia in between my thumb and index finger. First, the right and the left. I grabbed my thigh and moved my hand up to my breasts and pulled  my nipples. I grabbed my crystal wand, it was so cold on my skin. I lightly moved it crossed my clit and back again. It felt so smooth and gave me a tingling sensation.

I moaned aloud as I slid this cold hard wand inside of me. I widened my hips and my knees bent pointing outward while the bottoms of my feet came together to make a triangle. I paced my breaths with the in and out motions of my wand that I controlled with my left hand, while I continued to rub my clit with my right index and middle fingers. I arched my back and separated my feet. I pushed the wand out while I orgasmed loudly, staring at the shadows on the ceiling and with tears in my eyes. I lay for a while to catch my breath and to feel my pussy pulsate.

The was an act of self love not a sin to be ashamed of, this is the reason this painting should be painted.

I got dressed and turned on the light and put yellow paint on the pallet. I opened my google music app and selected my paint playlist.  MGK’s, “At my best” played as I made the first circular stroke.

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