I am plagued with the inner arguments. Anything I do, anything I am passionate
about, all my impulses and acts that bring excitement and brim with
inspiration, the very fruits of such experiences -- my art, my poetry, my
impulsive appeals to people, those who are close friends, and those who are total
strangers – all that I instantly denounce in the quiet act of brutal self
eradication.
Why so?
In a way, the reason, like the weather outside, doesn’t matter.
Rain or snow, or unbearable wind -- if getting from the point A to the point B
is the matter of survival, I take the challenge. (Points A and B are a figure
of speech; in the spiral journey taken in the winding winds no points exist;
the very journey is the matter of survival.)
And I am accustomed to it. I stubbornly walk my walk, albeit
silent, and that silent walk, the matter of survival, of sorts (does it mean,
that it is supposed to bring me to the habitable places?) – seems to lead me to
the greater isolation.
Once, another matter of survival, a mere need to make
living, sent me seeking a Human Service occupation, a care giver position within
an agency serving people with intellectual disabilities. I was able to make a
bargain with the agency and a compromise with myself: I would do anything that
is needed plus the art in the remaining time. It is important to notice, that
art has a peculiar appeal, especially to those with the practical goodwill
outlook: it is vain and suspicious, but simultaneously merited in its material
existence… and something else, something vague, something that may be lovable, almost
like a pet, given enough time to get used to.
Eight years proved to be enough time for my program to
become a pet in the agency where it grew. In the course of these years I have
been given an art space on the premises, all the time needed to attend to it,
and the position of an Art Director (almost a conductor of an orchestra).
I fully dedicated these years to developing an approach to
the task. On one hand, I was learning to engage people with intellectual
disabilities, individuals with strikingly diverse needs and motivations, in the
process of making art, that would benefit them on many levels; on another, I
was mastering the unique painting technique. I invented this technique specifically
for this purpose.
Today, I feel competent at both, but still so incompetent at
explaining it to others, and justifying it to myself.
It.
What is it? --My art? Our art? --Their art?
In a way the answer, like the weather outside, doesn’t
matter. “It” simply exists. And the process of making “it” exists. And there is
the process, and shared experience, and tangible results, so what is missing?
The conviction is missing, the belief in legitimacy of such
thing. In a way, what throws everyone off is the uncertainty of the authorship.
Isn’t it funny? There is tons of great art in history that has no authors. Why
we must have one? And how I, myself, see the tension between many wills
expressed in this process?
In a way, the answer, like the weather outside, is clear. I
am tormented.
