So, I am moving my writing stuff to a working studio. I have ordered a desk for the computer. It's an art studio, too. It's at the other end of the house. I bought a bookcase for the books I will need while writing, and can rotate them accordingly. I had two working studios when Johnny died and then I moved into my bedroom after that. It's never really felt right. But I think I was comforted by it, because Johnny was gone and the house was empty and I was so damn alone. (And very sick. Emotionally and physically ill for nearly a year and a half after Johnny died.) Johnny died. I keep repeating that. And I came unmoored. The house was uncanny. Only one room felt safe at the time. I had to slowly reclaim myself and my house. I had to look to the future, too. I could not look back. It made no sense to look back.
I already knew by the end of 2018, that I was never going to remarry, that I was fixed in my desire and need to create things and spend the rest of my years working on my art and writing. One of the things about grieving is how we build solace and attempt to comfort ourselves. We will go the path of least resistance. That's okay, but at some time, we have to face what is really going on with us. I might have made this step earlier if Covid-19 had not struck. Or not. I will never know. But I have made it now. Being alone is not going to destroy me. I have my muses and inspirations. I have my work.
Other things I ponder, that I am no longer depressed. I am no longer a victim of any trauma, and I have known many traumas. Of course, depression will return at some point and I will be disappointed but I will deal.
Today I thought of Francesca Woodman as I made the decisions and set in motion these plans. I have been studying her work. I have been thinking of art and how best to do it. Yes, plans, plans, plans. They had been rumbling through my mind since the end of January. I became fascinated with Woodman a few years ago, her art, her use of low light and the few resources she used to do her art. That she started so young. I was once very young and an artist. I had a scholarship to college for art and instead studied Anthropology and Art History, later Biology and Psychology. I read myself through the entire 19th Century at the same time. My mother was always slightly disappointed that I did not go to Art School but she never made a plan for that. But that's another story. My sister did go to Art School and is a beautiful artist, but she also read herself through the 19th Century, too. How we both love 19th Century Literature. For much of our lives, that was our art.
Woodman's art is still very relevant. This is what I have discovered. Her low light, her delayed or long exposures are still curiously current. She captured time in a way that bothers people I think. I want to replicate her desire for the image of time. But I also want to do some photography work related to my themes. But I want to know things, new things and the things she knew.
Woodman was not a writer or storyteller in the traditional sense of being a storyteller. Her art was her "talk" and in that art, one sees trauma, too, but one does not know exactly what it is. She was vague on purpose. But I am interested in her trauma. It eventually killed her. A suicide at 22 years old is not normal. She suffered from depression. She suffered from rejection and strangely the idea that she would not succeed, all at 20 years of age. There is something odd in that predicament. She had experienced a failed love affair. But looking at her in this photo makes one wonder how such a beautiful creature could throw herself off a building.
I often look to Francesca Woodman. Because I remember being 20 years of age. In some ways, I have had to embrace my 17 year old self in order to reinvent my life and move into the future that I have left. I call it the "Wildflower" role. It's worked very well, and was born out of my CBT sessions. Before Francesca Woodman died, she experienced many good years of creating good art. My sister and I have been exchanging long discussions on art, writing, social media, politics, history, the past, and even regret. We made a list of words that we hardly ever use in our work, our diaries, and even our letters. Shame was one. Boredom another. Regret, too. I've always found regret to be a waste. Even failure is not a word I use a lot.
Art is about choosing. I've had some bad habits on choosing. It always led to delays and procrastinations. And anxiety. But it never led to self-loathing. I suppose this is why I write about Brian Molko and am interested in Francesca Woodman, why I study them outside their gorgeous creative work. Depression runs in my family. But I need to understand their self-loathing, their pain.
I am moving out of this bedroom and corner this month. By May I will be in the new rooms.
There was a moment when I noticed that the light in my mind had changed. The thing is I noticed.
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