I was in middle school when we first moved to the desert, from Santa Barbara, of all places. I mean, who moves away from Santa Barbara? I was a shy, awkward nearly teenage only child who spent a lot of time missing childhood friends in the miserable isolation of prepubescence in the desert. One of the many tools I had at my disposal in order to keep myself entertained was a typewriter. Pairing this instrument with a roll of paper that was intended for drawing, I would compose long letters. Literally. One of them actually reached the height of my twelve year old self. This was before the days of email, text messages and mobile phones, when you shared the same line with your parents, and it was an extra cost for long distance calls. It was before Atari, although not too long before the Atari came to steal long hours of my summertime life. The writing was a comfort, a connection, a way to combat the loneliness and confusion of growing up. Eventually, somewhere in High School, this practice faded away, replaced with a combination of driving, cigarette smoking and other unsightly teenage social behaviors.
Fast forward almost twenty years. In between some college, marriage, the birth of children, some more college, work, parenting and the challenge of divorce, I found myself writing again outside of an academic context. Pretty much to save myself. I journaled as if my life depended on it, which I am pretty sure it did at the time. I complained, cried and dreamt on those pages. I slowly remembered myself and began to enjoy my independence. The words, just letting them spill out my truth, guided me. Along with about a year with a skillful therapist. This was a time when I was beginning to reengage with my creativity in full force, painting, drawing, ceramics and even some open mic poetry. The words were there for me. Without a grade or judgement.
I have kept a journal somewhat regularly since that time, as a tool for ideas, thoughts, documentation, venting, a way to get my truth out safely where I can reference it later if necessary. One of the recurring themes that comes up in these journals has been to write in a less private way. To actually share my words in some ways seems like torture, and in other ways seems like a comfort, a connection. That same comfort and connection of junior high letters. I have heard it said that the artist creates when the pain of not creating outweighs the pain of creation. Looks like the scales are tipping.
Being a visual artist has not lessened my lust for language. It is really just a different way to tell the story. Nearly thirty years in assisting creatives, and acting within my own creativity, has endowed me with a set of skills and experiences that are begging to be shared. When asked the question, where do I start, the reply is always: from exactly where you are.
The beginning is always now. (Thanks Joanne)
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