Trauma struck our home when I was five years old: my father died. I didn't know how to grieve such a loss. Depression plagued me for most of my childhood. I did big dark charcoal drawings of black clouds overhead. I remember a sailboat with its sail fallen over the boat in a storm. I drew a disjointed house, mangled animals, and many other such disasters.
My mother bought me a set of pastels and told me to add color to my drawings. She wanted me to "brighten up". I also learned to mask my feelings and hide my face behind make-up. I began drawing exotic peacocks with their tail in full array ( a defensive pose, I later learned), a puffer fish, and other animals in attack mode.
Later on, I met my husband and fell in love. I also changed to oil paints. I painted still life--that's where I was- still- not progressing. Emotionally, I hadn't grown up at all. Everything I had painted was frozen in tone on my canvas. I could see the world, but I couldn't live in it.
I had to have therapy...yet, it was my own art therapy that had to happen. I saw a friends' art of her anger, pain and suffering on display. I admired her courage for being able to do and display her pain. I told her I couldn't paint pain, yet, I had.
I did a series of acrylic string paintings where I "whipped" the canvas with paint. Granted the design looked appealing even though it held all my anger.
There are a lot of things I don't understand about life and God. But one thing I do know- Art heals the child within all of us.
Until the next time,
The Happy Painter,
Jill
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