several prints, more to come...

Egg Hunt

Perhaps she is not a hypocrite, nor wavering in the wind, but resetting a vision based on an ever-changing reality. She wades in the stillness, gently churning memories, kindly caressing the possibility that she is still collecting pieces of who she wants to be. Like little girls in lacey shifts on Easter morn, searching for colorful eggs in the grass. Their radiating smiles and high pitched laughter, not the product of knowing what the eggs contain, but quite the contrary. They are driven by the mystery within. Perhaps the eggs hold candy, change, or even a tiny ring, plastic of course, but no less beautiful than their mothers’ Tiffany bands. Grass stained stockings, tousled curls and frayed hems, all sacrifices made to fill their little straw baskets…

If only the secrets she conceals could fit in tiny pink and lavender shells…

And other times, she is found savagely dismantling the woman she vigilantly constructed, rebuilding the ashes into new visions, entirely obtrusive and unfamiliar. After all, Rome, nor her identity were built in a day. But fluctuations, both subtle and severe, of visions once fiercely embraced, cast shadows where she treads. Bumps and bruises on her knees, not covered by her slip, are evidence that her journey was not smooth. And now she finds herself haunted by things she once valued, unable to escape the guilt from casting them from her conscience.

And she is a mosaic, not a smooth and seamless vase. Her character is the effect of that who she strives to be, she who cannot be erased, and present impulsions that detract from any consistency.

Is this a sign of a healthy and flexible mind, or is she just mad? Is every day evidence of a change of heart or is she returning to her inescapable self? The paint beneath her nails, the smudge of charcoal on her cheek, all suggest that she never left her former self behind. It seeps to the surface. So perhaps, as she trudges through the brush, madly searching for the golden egg, she seeks not a mystery, but permission to return to fancies long abandoned, for fear they had no place in her tomorrow.

A needed refuge

Needed to get back to art...

  

House of Cards

He asked why she identified as passionate, and without delay, her mind flooded with volumes of evidence... In her opinion, no better descriptive came to mind. Whether a tactic of self-defense or a manipulative attempt to glamorize habits she could not avoid, she had grown to see herself as proudly impassioned, and prone to defend any and all correlated inclinations.

For better and sometimes worse she perceived herself the victim to no alternative but to completely and feverishly immerse her heart, mind, and soul into the task at hand. Sometimes this paved the way to unusual success while other times unusual mishaps, beautiful and terrifying experiences. But I suppose that is the risk one takes when giving all of their being to a singular vision, trusting that a thread won’t snap. To her great fortune, her strings have usually defied gravity, bearing enormous weight.

Passion, however, is often misinterpreted by the uninformed or conservative observer and as such, mistaken for irresponsibility and even selfishness. These individuals however, have never tasted the nectar of risk, nor been lost in the fervor of an intoxicating vision.

But for her, this self perception, is unmistakable, insatiable, her heroine of sorts. It is the feeling, the drive, the energy that comes from loving something completely, risking all and giving, acting unpredictably in response.

But when asked why she saw herself as passionate, and prompted for examples, she grew defensive. How odd it is that she is compelled to justify her nature. Is it immature or telling of some deep and hidden insecurity? Or rather some need to act in contradiction to past experiences or influencers? The mere curiosity of her interworkings is experienced as a threat to her house of cards. Perhaps she is not passionate at all, just ungrounded, undecided, and fleeting. After all, semantics, when repeated time and time again, become ideas that lend to embraced beliefs. And this is process through which her self-perception is born, and there, in the stillness , she finds sanctuary from herself, peace with her inability to understand exactly who she is.