The Paintings on My Wall

Almost fifteen years ago, a friend, who happened to be a reporter, asked me a series of questions, as if for an interview. Here’s my explanation of a couple of the paintings that were already on the walls as we spoke.

This is one of my favorites. My sisters and I were dressed exactly alike for most of our lives. This painting doesn’t necessarily show exactly what we looked like in a photographic representation. But they look like what our attitudes and personalities were like to the point where each of my sisters can stand here and they will say, unequivocally, “That’s not me,” and then point directly at the one that is her.

In this painting, there is a red chair. These three girls are stuck in this red chair and they look like they pretty much can’t get out of there, and they are dressed very nicely as if they were going to have a photo taken.

They have these little socks and shoes that are practically nailed to the floor.  And there it is, the arch thing, which acts as a wall. They are over-protected. There is danger because there is no back wall on that room. Even the fence is falling down. There is a cityscape behind them that doesn’t look necessarily warm and inviting.

There is a bush in bloom beyond that wall. There is blackness that is falling from that bush onto a chair. There are three chairs and a table also in the background—each of those chairs representing one of those girls. Two chairs are facing each other. The sisters are paired off, and I sort of get isolated, even in my own family structure. The chair all the way at the back represents me.

The petals are used to talk about a situation that happened that wasn’t necessarily a great thing. The chair even casts an ominous shadow. Again, I have taken an ugly situation and made it beautiful. I’ve talked about it, and put it down, without hitting people over the head with it. I’m not a sensationalist. I am saying, “Here is what happened.”

There is usually something green in my paintings. This one is no different. There is a live plant in this one. I don’t know why I do that except that I think it is possible for a plant to grow, despite hardship and life’s difficulties. I think there are still ways to make a life.

This one here . . . We did sing when we were young. We are all dressed actually alike and we are different. This time there isn’t a green plant. There is a candle in this painting that is basically representing the hope. There is the over-protection. There is still no back wall in this room.

I have three women in this painting. They are standing so close together they cast one shadow. I am basically saying these people are of the same mind.

To see more paintings and the stories that accompany them, please click through and explore ChimeraBlues. For new paintings, some of them posted in progress, click The New Painting tab here on The Blues.

Self Portrait of An Artist In Search of Herself

Almost fifteen years ago, a friend, who happened to be a reporter, asked me a series of questions, as if for an interview. It’s strange to read this now. Anyway, here are some of the answers I gave.

WHO AM I?

I see myself as a person, a human being, a light, a voice. I see myself as what every human being is—separate and trying to connect, trying to communicate.

I’m not a compartmentalized person, so I live in my world, and my communication may come out in any number of ways. I write. I paint. I sing. I don’t consider myself a singer, a writer, a painter. I consider myself a human being, trying to communicate, trying to—you know, throw things up and say,  “Look—here I am. What do you think? This is what I saw; did you see this?”

If I’m lucky enough to find people who have seen some of the things I’ve seen and maybe even interpret them in similar ways, then I’m not alone as I was before and I’m not afraid as I was before.

So much of my energy comes because I’ve been afraid for so long, because life is scary, especially as somebody who is completely separate. We all are, but we don’t all have to pay as acute attention to that.

It seems that people who become artists, for lack of a better label, are people who pay more attention, for whatever reason.

DO I HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BE AN ARTIST?

I’m a woman, a mother first, an artist second. Does that mean that I don’t have what it takes to make it?

I think society asks you to give up too much to make it in almost any arena—whether I could bounce a basketball better than anybody, or it I were someone who understood the dynamics of supply and demand, as in economics.

It seems society is constantly asking you to become a ‘thing’, separate from humanness in order to make it.  So you leave your family. You leave part of yourself to do that. You cannot be someone who loves and is committed to other people in order to make it in any arena in the world right now.

It’s considered okay for somebody like my father who I saw, alive, for the last time when I was three years old. He left, not only my family, but also apparently five or six other families. It’s perfectly acceptable for him though, because he is a man and he could point to all kinds of examples of why this is worthwhile. He is an artist. He is a performer. And there is absolutely no doubt in his mind of that.

For me, I’m first and foremost a woman. I am somebody’s mother. I’m somebody’s daughter. I am connected to people I cannot desert and cannot justify, with the sanctity of my art, deserting. So, it is part of my tradition, from growing up in the South, from being Black, and maybe for some people, it doesn’t matter, but it does to me.

LINGERING DOUBTS ABOUT MY ART

I forgot who said it—a very wise guy way back—that which is in you that cannot be destroyed is yours to keep.  I almost—actually did deny it. In despair I’d think, “You’re not an artist. Maybe you don’t have it.” I tried to live normally. “You’re not going to do this. You can’t.”

Then it was that I couldn’t NOT do it, you know what I mean? It was like, “There it is, anyway, in you. You keep doing it.” So, I decided not to try and impress anyone. Even to consider whether they would have to be shown, but just to take it one day at a time, and patiently, honestly, put down what had to be put down, as a person, and that’s what my paintings are.

A Thing About The Lake

It’s where I go. I know I shouldn’t have been out there yesterday. Minutes before, rain poured. Stopped now, the morning darkness still said no. Black and gray, green and gold, all swirling as if in a blender outside my window. No, but the wind said yes. Yes, it’s not raining now. Yes, the wind is high. Yes, there will be waves. You love to see it all stirred up and restless like yourself. There will be waves. I went. The wind was so strong I had to fight just to be there, Just like everywhere else I am. I’m a fighter. Quiet, but I fight. Maybe I wouldn’t have to fight so much if I weren’t so quiet. If I would crash and roar like the waves, maybe trouble would stay back. I went. Straight to the edge. No crashing waves. No roaring. The waves, flattened by the winds, reversed, moved away from the shore, away from the rocks, away from me. The waves were quiet. Is this the calm or the storm?

Felicia and the Easel Move

I’d cleaned my son’s old room and moved the easel from the living room window into what I hoped would become a more productive environment. The painting had been started almost two years before. It hadn’t made it out of the under-painting stage. These are a series of twitter posts made in September in which I shamelessly enlist the moral support of some of my new Twitter friends. I had put it out there so I had to finish. btw. I know that’s Natasha but she has to play the fairy for me.