My painting above was first titled “They Don’t Live Here Anymore”, and it did not include the snowy white hands which are seen parting the foliage for a better view of the Native American woman. No, it was just a lovely pastoral scene: nature in it’s pristine state, unspoiled by European bunglers. I had to change it, inject myself into the view. I wanted to show that we, the observers had come upon this beautiful scene, and silently parted the branches.
I don’t know why I think I have to drag the viewer in by the nose, when the painting says all that in the first place… I must think that my art is sooo bad that no one can figure it out for themselves. Maybe it is.
I am in a major funk moment right now. I feel very foolish, and I feel taken advantage of, misunderstood and slandered. I feel like a red faced child who should have realized the other kids were joking when they invited her to their party. I feel like the “poor relation” the “black sheep” and the “village idiot” all rolled into one.
After all that, being a bad artist seems trifling. I want to cry, but I don’t want the relatives that hurt me to have the satisfaction of that, even if they can’t see the tears. I suppose I should let it all out here, that was my intention, because my blog has been my sounding board for 14 years now, and my paper journal for the 30 years before that. This is my therapy, at least my sister blog is. I fancied this one to be a cut above, a professional artist’s declaration of success. My outlook is not nearly as bright as that now.
You won’t be satisfied till I spill my guts, so I will tell you. (Just nod and smile like you would at someone slobbering and grinning like a weasel while sitting across from you on public transit) ((before Covid )) (((and in between stops, because if there were stops you would run screaming and not stay and listen. Just sayin’…)))
I was a criminal while I was in active addiction. A thief. A good one, I thought, as if there was some grading system. I dreamed of being a Robert Dinero style thief, but I was more like the narrator dude in Goodfella’s, but not in a snitchie way…was he a snitch? so , no, that’s not a good analogy. Anyhow, I was caught and it’s a long convoluted story, suffice to say my Mother’s sister never, ever forgave me. Although I never stole a dime from her. She never understood alcoholism, or addiction, or Bipolar Disorder, or believed I was truly handicapped , or thought I was in any way redeemable. When I got out of jail and was able to get clean and sober, while the rest of the family celebrated my return, she recoiled when I attempted to hug her and I will remember that rejection forever. The funny thing is that I’m like the dog that gets beat but won’t quit coming back. (more on that some other time)
I have another relative who I have always had a really good relationship with. She has always been quite loving and kind, and we like to talk and tell stories about the past. She is a wealth of info about the family, she was married for about 60 years to my deceased Mom’s first cousin. Also the meanie Aunt’s first cousin.
You know something? I’m tired. I just drove 4 hours home from the aforementioned person’s house, and I just want to go to bed and have a good cry. I’ll come back here in a day or 2 with a new stupid painting that explains my emotional hurt.
thanks for listening to my little song and dance…goodnight.