An Open Study on Growth, 2019-2020
Between two rooms there is a wall. This shared wall has two visible exterior walls in both rooms, yet we often do not think of the space between these walls as a room. Between the past and future there is the present, which often feels like the biggest room we have. Transitions are the liminal space between the known and the unknown. What is both attained in and leftover from the known are the resources we have to enter the unknown. In the now that is the transitional space between the room we came from and the room we’re going to is its own static room. There is much life and loss to both celebrate and grieve as we try to make sense of the ambivalence within ourselves, as well as wrestle with the dissonance and togetherness amongst the diverse and overlapping communities we are members of.
[I invited viewers to participate by sharing thoughts, ideas, questions, and answers in the communal notebook kept on a shelf below the paintings.]
Trajectory
On an individual and communal level, we are seldom going in one direction, but more often torn between the tensions between immediacy and longevity, individual needs and group needs, and the want to be seen and the want to hide. In the temporary safety of the untruth that desire and intention are fully-conscious and one dimensional, I have found myself stonewalled in my failed attempts to move toward my consciously-desired destination. To understand this chaotic mess as part of one cohesive unit, one must learn to understand these seemingly conflicting different directions as being in relationship to one another: the urge to create and the urge to destroy are both creative urges. They are both manifestations of sincere attempts at a type of remedy for pain. They are more similar than they are different in intention, despite holding the capacity for drastically different outcomes.
Though intriguing at a distance, it feels frivolous to talk of the unconscious as if emotions and defenses can be moved like pieces on a gameboard. Lest we not forget that our uniquely loaded reactions to the implications of thoughts and feelings act as the rulebook to a game that we are all playing together. In the constant that is the tension between both wanting to see and hide, I wish for myself and others for growth to include both self-preservation and metamorphosis.
__________
Where is there harmony and where is there dissonance between our intention and operation?
Leftover
In my discomfort with throwing out mixed paint, this board became a vessel for the leftovers from my painting sessions. Unlike the careful and intentional process with my other paintings, this painting became the subject of haste and disrespect as I’d shove it under a nearby table to dry during the chaotic cleanup process. During cleanup, I attempt to transition back into reality while bearing the burden of the aftermath of my painting sessions which are emotionally and experientially loaded and graphic in nature. Upon returning to the studio and seeing this painting on the floor by dirty paper towels, I propped it up on an easel with disdain and asked myself, what is this?
This is what is leftover: the rejection, the hurt, the anger, the disbelief, the resentment, the exasperation, the exhaustion, the defeat. The silence.
We carry within us residual feelings from our experiences. Sometimes it is hard to tell what is quiet when we are listening for the messages in all the noise. And where does this silent and hard-to-locate obstruction that is residue act as a wedge, within us and between us?
__________
What digested or regurgitated offerings act as adhesive or repellent, both within ourselves and between us?
Reflections a Year Later (September 2020):
The first person who responded in the notebook personally told me they had felt moved to do so before exiting the gallery. Upon checking for their note, I opened the notebook to a blank page. Perplexed, I flipped through and realized they had chosen a page in the center and then closed the book.
I noticed a desire for anonymity from those who shared thoughts in the notebook: writing on random pages, the notebook mostly left closed, no signatures. I overheard several others say they might come back and write when the gallery was empty and I noticed many people—including myself—checking for writing, but not contributing or responding. I try to stay open to reactions to my work, but I did notice myself surprised that there was little-to-no dialogue between people in the notebook; everything was its own thought, tucked away on its own hidden page.
Other than the fact that this was my own work, there was also a hesitancy to respond in the book with a pen, being a permanent instrument. At first, I thought permanence, especially cementing the ephemeral nature of thought and feeling, was perhaps incongruous to growth. I wondered, in retrospect, if I had been better off supplying pencils and a small bowl of erasers so viewers could amend their writing after integrating new learning into their experience. Would participants feel free to do so or would that invite people to erase each others’ work? I felt somewhat scrambled and worried as my thoughts expanded more broadly to themes of secrecy, withholding, censorship, and power dynamics. This brought me back to the permanence of the pen and perhaps its fitting nature; using a pen represented the tension between either withholding or obscuring our true selves or reacting authentically, but then having to bear the true impact—both positive and negative—of how we bring ourselves. Stumbling through unknown territories with authenticity and humility lends itself to personal and communal understanding and growth. However, facing our true selves is often less than desirable, because this learning is painful and challenges idealized versions we hold about ourselves. This learning process includes facing previously-veiled truths about ourselves and feelings like regret, guilt, shame, hurt, anger, and fear, which are often also rooted in meaningful historic experiences. However, these exposing experiences also give us the opportunity to learn about ourselves, learn from others, make connections, and hopefully understand, respect, and outgrow our past-selves. So, was my own hesitancy to engage in pen representative of my fears of engaging fully with who I was with those around me? Did my fears stop me from being in a way I may have wanted to be back then just like my fears sometimes stop me from being who I want to be today? (Yes.)
As an artist, I have an advantage in presenting my learning intentionally. Within each painting are many versions of the painting; conflicts are created, veiled, and rediscovered. Each move forms the foundation of the final painting which remains an unfinished draft that uncovers new understanding the more time I spend with it. Did I set up my viewers in a way that was unfair? Or at least in a way where the incongruence in expectation and reality was not named but felt (an echo of social media usage) and invited a sense of having to have a “finished painting” to write in the notebook? I think now of those Buddha boards where you paint with water and it disappears, people often delighted by broad and messy brush strokes.
In my work I have the freedom to express because there is freedom to wonder, try new things, question, amend, take a break, and use my relationships for support in my process. Learning alone and learning with others pose different advantages and different challenges and at different times, though they can be used in conjunction to support one another. I wonder now in which moments do I retreat in my fears of being the clumsy forever-incomplete human that I am and in which do I move forward and have a more intentional presence, both alone and with others. And in my intentional presence, how am I embodying my energies: with confidence, compassion, shame, aggression, fear, arrogance, bravery, humility, authenticity? What are my intentions and desires and how do the tools and relationships around me influence how I embody myself?
Pens, pencils, erasers, Buddha boards... closing my reflection, I find myself less focused on the “writing implement” and more on how I tend to my internal and external spaces; conversations and relationships where I can listen deeply, shamelessly ask questions, be patient, and stay curious about myself and others are the most conducive to my pursuit of learning.
During this time of global pandemic, racial violence, the Black Lives Matter Movement, climate change, uncontained fires, political negligence, threatened democracy, concentration camps, human trafficking, animal exploitation, and anything else I may have left out—as I feel I am learning new horrifying things everyday—I am left with an overwhelming amount of grief, anger, helplessness, fear, anxiety, determination, and hope. Over a year after opening this study on growth, I am left believing that we can better ourselves and each other by being willing to feel and face hard things, get things wrong, get things right, and change our beliefs and actions. Someone close to me once said, “It is easier to live when you have hope.” I do not mean the kind of blind invalidating optimism that I once believed to be hope. I mean the tough, self-preserving, community-adhering, and sometimes exhausting hope that is an energy to garden and gift: both a soft respite and a skillful rebellion. The kind of hope that both grows from and strengthens reflection, persistence, and meaningful relationships. The kind of hope you have to have to create, make changes, live, love, and put up a fight.
__________
What is it that gets in the way of our ability to be curious about ourselves, listen to one another, and make space to change our previous beliefs and actions, when our ability to adapt is our greatest strength?
