Fish and birds seem to be part of the images that appear in me more often than not. They usually look about the same. But yesterday I met a new fish. A fish of different colour. Because usually they don't have any colour. This one does.
As a kid I was fascinated by the fact that you could do something that so obviously made you deteriorate inside and out. Voluntarily. As an adult I know smoking is just a very concrete version of this behaviour. Many of us do it everyday in different ways. Negative self talk so as to seem humble and/or worthy of praise. Unhealthy eating. Watching TV shows that make us feel bad. Allowing ourselves to be swallowed up by work that doesn't fill us up. The list goes on.
I am on a journey to quit doing these things. Starting with negative self talk and negative interpretation of past, present and future events. And of course actually going for my dream even though I watch a fair amount of TV when I could be creating.
After feeling like being dug down far inside a mountain. When it concerns inner change and development. When it concerns following my artistic dreams. When it concerns living my values.
I got the feeling a while ago, that I have now finally entered a process forward. I almost do not dare say it's for real this time. So many times have I set up a goals and set the sails for new land. Only to find myself again in the exact same spot (hence previous picture). So this time I am taking it slow. Feeling my way. Allowing the changes to grow a bit on their own, just doing my best to ease along.
My mother hates this picture.
I am not surprised.
It does come across as a tiny bit depressive, don't you think?
I don't feel depressed when I look at it though. Because it was such
a relief making it.
I have been stuck now for a larger part of my life than not when it comes to seeking out a life as an artist. Sad but true. Sometimes I think that stuckness just is, and always will be. That maybe it is not actually being stuck. More having a distorted image of what life should be as opposed to what it is. But when l feel stuck ti feels like this. Being dragged down into the ground by a tick, smeary goo, looking up at a mountain knowing I have to, or at least should climb it.
But being able to at least express it somehow makes me feel lighter already.
This day I had no patience working with just one image...
Maybe finished. Maybe I will paint the houses black. Hmm...
I love the meditational quality of colouring in one circle at the time. One tiny leaf.
And some sky.
I have made the first attempt at filming when I draw and paint. Didn't turn out very interesting, hehe. But I am going to try it out until I find it worth sharing. I love watching other artists create!
During a time when I didn’t quite know what to do with my life, or which my place in the Universe is (when do you ever get sure?) I had such an enormous longing for that close, close friendship. The one where you know each other almost inside and out. The one where sometimes you can mirror each other better then you can see yourself. Where you can talk about anything without having to feel afraid and vulnerable. The kind of friendship it is hard to find time for in this time of stress.
I had this inner image of sitting inside a golden bubble, hung up high in the branches of a tree, with the rays of the sun seeping through the foliage. A world of its’ own to be in and meet each other in beyond space and time.
I would so much enjoy finding out the stories behind other's creations as well! What are you making/have you made, and what is its' story? Comment and make me happy :)! Leave a link to where you have more work if you want to!
I actually have no idea where this man came from. I was sitting in class at the university. Staring out in nothingness while listening to a
lecturer repeat at length what I had already read in the book we were assigned to have studied before the lecture (Why do they do that?). And I guess my hand was moving, so I guess I was sketching and then I looked down into my notebook and there he was. I was surprised. For the past months all the sketches sprung from my own imagination had been of women. Versions of me I guess. And now there was this thin-haired man in a suit. He was accompanied by a story. Nothing
spectacular. Just about going to work. Spending time in front of the mirror at home to carefully choose what to wear. To look smart. To look like he belongs. The expensive suit crisp and new, smelling fresh and unused. Going to work. And realizing the suit is of the wrong colour. The amused excluding glances from his colleagues. It should have been granite, not navy.