Curiosity in Purpose
The idea that we each have our on mechanisms of numbing circumstances that brings us pain is a curiosity to me. Each person, on the individual level, has there mechanism. These mechanisms exist to provide us an escape from reality - a momentary anchor, but an anchor in another realm. In one’s own mind this mechanism is the only pervading thought, even now I am making use of one of my many mechanisms.
A mechanism, escape, or even escape comes in many forms. For some it can be constructive, others it can be destructive. In some instances the individuals fixate on positives or various other constructive escapes that these mechanisms eventually become destructive, in a rather twisted turn of events of course.
My curiosity then lies with the question: “Can one take an inherently destructive method of coping and breathe new life from it? With a change of perspective, a twist of events - can it be constructive? Can this build something?”
I think perhaps it can, especially for oneself. Finding satisfaction in one’s own creation via the means of construction can be beautiful in a way.
Art is typically meant to express something. Not always, of course. Early art students make this mistake often. Some pieces or works have no meaning or only have meaning to the artist themself. Additionally there is no such thing as good art. The nature of this description is entirely personal and varies from one person to another. But it is art.
What I create expresses my inner mind at any given moment. I do not trace or sketch out a plan. I do not have any serious forethought on what I want to make. I simply express the inner turmoil that exists. I don’t enjoy others seeing it, although I don’t mind if they do. I think of my art as a soliloquy, much in the same way I feel about this “blog.” I know that no one reads it, yet I still write.
With what I’ve written thus far in mind, and recognizing that my art has taken a dark turn - I’ve realized what categories I would fall into if I were truly serious about it: Transgressive and Surrealism. This is due in part to the fact that yesterday I used my habit of self harm for something I would consider a more “positive” purpose. While I’ve always understood that the very nature of what I’ve done is self destructive, yesterday I felt different.
Often times my mechanisms of coping (as described) do the job of “transporting me” elsewhere, they allow me a temporary relief from the pain I’ve felt since I was far too young - and perhaps stave off what feels an inevitable outcome. However it is of course destructive. I don’t have pity for myself, and don’t appreciate other’s pity. There’s no need for it for their looks or their tonal shifts, while I’m broken in many ways - I do not need their pity. I do not view myself as entirely broken.
The piece I completed yesterday felt incomplete and broken for some time. I tried many methods to make it feel whole, to mend what I felt was broken. None of it worked. The feeling persisted. I was prepared to start over entirely. I desperately need what is in my head to be expressed on these canvases. It finally hit me the night before, and I settled myself on it that afternoon.
I prepared a place spot on the canvas for what I wanted. I used my mechanism for creation. I used it to breathe life into the canvas. I allowed my blood, the very essence that gives me life, to flow into the canvas and mix with the paint - creating something new. Something beautiful.
My thoughts were not of sadness, not of anguish. I harbored no ill will towards any person or situation. In that moment I felt happy. Complete. Proud of what I had created. I felt no pain, but a rush of serotonin - as though my body could float at any time.
I don’t expect anyone to understand, nor do I recommend anyone attempt to understand. It was my experience and mine alone. In a sense I felt as though I needed it. Why do we need what kills us most? I don’t know that answer.
In the end I recognize one fact. My mind is the most dangerous opponent I’ve faced in my life. I cannot handle my thoughts, as the trauma echoes. I cannot handle silence as it is deafening. I’ve spent so much time trying to fix myself, trying to let go of it all. But yet it remains, it echoes in my mind.
Yet entwined - thoughts of love, aspiration. Desire. Need.
Who am I really? I’m so tired. Can I truly be alive, one day just let go and be alive - not feel indifference?