THE STIMULUS SERIES

LONG TO BELONG

I fear and lust for the question “Where are you from?” most about the process of meeting and getting to know new people. I ponder every time, whether my longwinded response should be shaved for a more simple answer - but I swim in the sparkle in the eyes of people who are amazed by such a monologue. Though I’m not an “Army Brat,” and my father is not a traveling salesman, the timing of my migrations has not been easy to adjust to. Coupled with my regular characterization as a Wallflower, Black Sheep, and Free Spirit, I’ve been left obsessively confused by what it means to have a ‘Home.’

THE COME DOWN

The feeling of taking off clothes to shower, rubbing feet after a long day on my feet. I wanted to keep the specific orange glow that elicited the drawing directly attached to the drawing as an anchor because without it - she seems far too somber. The reality I drew from the photo to the girl isn’t one of misery, but of processing a fond memory.

VIS(TOXI)COUS

When I was little I loved volcanoes, and I learned about viscosity. To think there could be a measure for how runny something is was comical to me - until lava was explained. Molten rock, so hot that its shapeless and dynamic existence could pour over buildings, through forests, and cause irreversible destruction was admirable. And terrifying. I jumped from the margins to a small canvas, meaning I was playing this one for keeps. I chose to have geometry clash with fluidity inside the mind numbing color in order to offer a bit of subconscious structure, and a vision of lava and structural steel melting into the heat flashed across my eyelids.

'DRAW ME YOUR HOME'

"1. You’re highly alert which means you’re sensitized to very many things.
2. You’ve already sensed something in me, onto which you’ve projected something you fear.
3. You verbalize concerns about being alone in your head and confronting the difficult existential questions.
4. Existential questions are, fundamentally, questions about purpose, meaning and value (both positive and negative).
5. When we seek purpose and meaning, we often overcorrect by seeing things in either/or, rather than both/and.
When we do either/or we run towards the positive and away from the negative. We don’t hold the 2 sides (I prefer spectrum) in a healthy tension.
A way to approach being here might be to hold opposing parts of yourself (impulses, orientations, desires, whatever) in tension. Rather than oscillating.”

I WISH THAT WE WERE WATER LILIES

Meredith. Art isn’t a reward, its necessary to function and survival.

4 hours of airtime and what felt like million-line-induced-blindness later, the woman next to me watched my shove my pens back in their pouch and headphones in my pocket. “Can I see some of your notebook?” she asked to my no longer occupied ears. For a split second I was terrified, but I pulled it out and quietly began to explain 6 or 7 drawings. I traced my lines with my fingers and my voice grew stronger - “I always did art, but school takes up all my time you know? But I recently found out I have ADHD and that kinda taught me that its psychologically necessary for me to make art and meditate to function like everybody else - I used to think I was dumber than everyone else - but I think I’m just a different kind of smart…” When I looked at her after trailing off she said “Keep going, anyone could see from your notebook that there is a genius in charge.”

BOOTLEGGER PROCESS

The problem I sometimes have with “Art” as a subject, juried, taught, labeled, official - is that it exudes some kind of need to be untouchable and valued by those in charge (of curation, sales etc). It is discouraged by diverting funding and attention to other subjects, and only celebrated posthumously or because of some accidental encounter with an person of influence. But in all truth, art is an entire language, religion, and safe haven that sounds and is manifested differently by anyone who explores it. Kelsey Brookes exposed the concept to me that while a piece doesn’t have to “make sense” in terms of WHAT it is, it should be accessible to anyone who wants to explore it - if not only because artists create based on what they have heard or seen or felt before. It's nothing more than a process of constantly recalling something, stealing it from the depths of your mind, and hoping someone else hasn’t done exactly that before.

THE PLEASURE OF A SCAR

With the necessity to create on the agenda for being home, I crawled out from under the blankets and pulled everything out, waiting for an image to float into my brain. I could feel my skin drying and itching as the dryness leeched the Florida humidity out. I scratched my entire body and watched dead skin fall on the carpet and irritated lines spring up, marking where I had been. It reminded me of the darker times when I would keep a push pin in my pocket in high school and dig it into the lining of my pocket to scrape my hip when I would spiral at school. The pain, though sharp and piercing, was tolerable enough to be undetectable - but when I would shower or disrobe the proof was there for me to see. 

I grabbed a bottle of lotion and commanded myself to be kind to myself. The areas that had been scratched stung with irritation and glowed red with less permanence but the same guilty pleasure of the push pin scratches from years before. In this piece, the figure is scratching her neck, and blanketed in a grid of red dots. Digging for an itch that can’t just be scratched and demanding that she sit in the discomfort until it fades with time

VINBERG'S BATTLECRY

Rachelle Vinberg is a young skateboarder with a social media identity focused on being herself. Though she rose to internet stardom for being a beautiful and groovy trickster - she expresses regularly “just because you are my audience, does not give you the right to assume control of my creativity.” In the millennial age group there is an even smaller grouping, of people born after 1993 but before 1999 who are a curious 6 years of children who grew up with both the pre technology and social media boom (the world where few had cell phones, and social networking didn’t go beyond the school phonebook) and the adolescent exposure to that world.

THANKSGIVEN

By starting to openly share my art - in essence the product of my Self - on social media, I started to take ownership of who I am and take pride in it, regardless of whether my number of followers went down, or the number of ‘likes’ wasn’t as high as normal. I started to take long sabbaticals from social networks and use them to interact with my physical world - the good life that I can physically know is good and be completely present in. And creating the proof specifically for myself to remember that life is good - even when doubt and fear creep in.

NUTCASE CONFEDERACY

Using the sentence to inspire the illustration of one very brainy walnut - I got to enjoy the moment of laughter it brought about with every detail, spot, and stripe. I got to sit in a moment of levity - and without a question that causes me to believe that my life should be more full of just that, silliness, levity, and joy. The title “Nutcase Confederacy” is a readaptation of the book titled “A Confederacy of Dunces.” The story of the book poses a quirky, eccentric, old soul and black sheep of sorts opposite the general population, characterized as a confederacy of dunces, with nothing to inspire them but a desire to be contrary to the protagonists difference.

BIC CLACK MOO

When I am in heavier clouds of anxiety, overstimulated, and terrified, I feel full of potential energy, in exact metaphor to the explanation in Physics - like a roller coaster car on the verge of falling down from the tallest height, or gasoline on a pile of wood, just before it is touched with a flame - the fuse is short. Adding the lighter in its first big ignition is a moment of disruption, before havoc and after peace. I think this piece metaphorically goes hand in hand with the later piece “Betty Is A Bombshell,” both depicting a relationship with a breaking point, or point of immense chang

THE SAPLING SONG

I had prepared a long, thorough explanation of my theories as to why the semester was so difficult, a life history of being a fairly well liked oddball, and a plea for a way to “better,” really better, not the temporary kind that comes from running away or inebriation. Before we even arrived at ADHD a few sessions into the process, the first words she finally got out in response to my Epic Poem of Despair were “Is there anything you can think of that comes naturally to you? Anything you do that makes you feel proud of yourself?” For a moment I was ashamed - I had explained my entire, fairly eventful, and definitely special life story to this woman… And I had only complained about it being the most awful infliction of all time. As I thought about the question and shifted in my chair I knew the answer. I knew the answer was art. But I even felt shame about that.

THE CAVE

While at times overstimulation can be all consuming, painful to the brain and body - it flows, and leaves us for even just a small amount of time. Long enough to go brush your teeth, or drink a glass of water - sometimes even long enough to do more. Drawing from Cadmus’ imagery, I understood the beauty of grieving, an how universal and humbling it is. 

Reflecting on my fixation on nude figures, I think the universality of nudity is why I hold it as a theme. We are born naked. We spend time with ourselves, naked - at the least to bath. We know our own naked bodies better than anyone, the moles and scars, the shape of our hips, and the bits we wish were not - but our raw identity is right there. As layers are added, things get messy. Underwear matches if theres an inkling someone might see it, commercials show us what will flatter our figure, pop culture sells us personality and the clothes to get there, and our wardrobe becomes our most obvious statement about ourselves, no conversation necessary.

RAPTURE ME TOMORROW

While I still find myself guiltily, selfishly, hoping that love will return, and return to stay - I have confidence in my ability to survive, even thrive in its absence. Slowly but surely, I let go of restrictive control on myself, and chose to use control in ways that could ADD to rather than LIMIT my life. Instead of a malnourished nap at the threat of tears, I put on running shoes; instead of a habit of ibuprofen and bottomless coffee to numb the headaches and aching joints leftover from adolescent athleticism, I flow through yoga practice, breathe deeply, stretch regularly, and spend time wrapped in heat and ice. And when the emotion demands to be felt in all its fullness - I give it space and time to wash over me, and I turn it into art. I decided that I am allowed to make myself feel better - mind and body. And I know exactly how.

ALTHOUGH WE'RE INCOMPATIBLE

Through creating an image of this idea, a girl with a glow the whole world can see - submitting to the affection of a Man who is not quite ‘It,’ I have a visual representation of the danger of giving too much of yourself to people, situations, and processes that leave me worse for wear. I charge myself with the courage to defer responsibility to people with more energy if I in truth am exhausted, I fill myself with the belief that if I do not want to spend time with a person who hurts me by absorbing my time - I am allowed to bid them adieu, and I every day remember that although society is attracted to and fascinated by people who exude a transcendent, empathic, creative, and joyful life - only a particular few are capable of contributing to and keeping up with it.

BETTY IS A BOMBSHELL

“You know on the 4th of July when you’re lighting fireworks, and the time between lighting the fuse and the big show? The big breath while you wait for the fuse to burn through?” I asked - and she nodded allowing me to continue: “I can tell when I am not at all combustible - when even if something is uncomfortable - its not the kind of discomfort that concerns me… And I can tell when its possible - when a discussion transitions into something I haven’t settled in my heart, when I start to notice too many things happening around me and can’t grab onto just one - I can hear the clock ticking, and see the light flickering, and smell someones pretzels, and feel the hum of the air conditioner through the floor… When I’m there, I know that I’m combustible, but it takes a spark… When I get that hyper aware, I know that it takes only a loud noise, or a fast change of light, or being asked if I’m okay. But when that thing happens - I don’t really have the time to reverse. Just boom - the fuse can’t be put out because the show has already started.” She sat for a minute before asking “has it gotten any better?”

INCONSISTENCY IS KEY

In the case of memories as fleeting as pet names, I have found myself with a regular desire to take back the warmth I gave. Can I do that? No, and if I could, I’m sure it would be just as regrettable as burning photos of good memories just because the hurt was too great. But the wish remains. To take back calling him my Groovy Baby, to take back the times I sacrificed things to provide color and kindness and use them on something better.

Though I cannot realistically take back a single moment of the history I’ve lived, I have every ability and right to express the desire to wipe my heart clean. Little by little, melancholy by melancholy, drawing by drawing, and day by day, the potential of a Me at a point of closure becomes more real - and I anxiously await that day