Artist
I wake up most mornings now trying to think of ways to make a living. I try not to scare myself too much even though I am terrified. I tell myself to keep moving forward, take small steps–don't worry. It's easier some days than others. The anxiety grips me between 3-4am and then I can't get back to sleep. I would usually write, but living in someone else's house makes that difficult. I'm staying in a small room in my mother's garage. People have certain rhythms and I'm respectful of that. As a working Artist, I had been looking forward to a more easier schedule. I would have more time to set my own schedule and work my own hours. If I wanted to work all night and sleep all day on a project I could. If I wanted to write late into the night or all morning that would be fine. If I wanted to be out all day Photographing and then editing late at night that would be fine too, but being part of the hidden homeless now doesn't allow for that. After my business was destroyed and everything in my life–the past 3yrs have been brutal. I struggle to put my life together, but the violence continues.
So much has been irrevocably changed. I can no longer paint, shoot photographs or do graphic design. Everything to run my business has been taken. My small business started out making money and I was thrilled that I had made a dream come true. I had an Art Studio and was also painting and showing work on Etsy. All of it was dumped into a storage unit when I was violently put on the street. Evicted from the home I had lived in for 20yrs. I tried to hang on to my personal belongings and business for 3yrs while I searched for stable housing. After 10 evictions, 14 arrests and being jailed recently, the threats of destroying my business and auctioning off my storage unit were done. 20yrs of photography, writing and art are all gone. All the things to run my business are gone. Even my clothes are gone. My ability to get professional employment now is also gone. Background checks, destroyed credit, evictions and having no car are all making professional employment impossible. I'm told that it's delusional to still think of myself as a professional.
I would have never called myself a victim, but today I can say that I'm a victim of Domestic Violence–specifically Economic Abuse. I was emotionally abused, but it has been the financial that has destroyed my life in a way I would have never known to be possible until the last 3yrs, which have been the most harrowing of my life. The devastating impact of this horrible crime has taken from me many things that are irreplaceable. I struggle each day now trying to even think I can even still call myself an Artist, which is devastating. I worked extremely hard all my life and was modestly successful. Starting my business was a dream come true. I had sacrificed, saved and studied and was just starting to earn some money, get noticed and know that I could do the work and help my clients in a way I could be proud of. It had taken me a decade of being a corporate designer to have the confidence to say that. To know that I could deliver the final product on time, within budget and make the client happy to do business with me. That I possessed the skills necessary to be successful.
Economic Abuse is more than just someone taking your money. It is a destruction of your very self by using money as the means. To prevent you from being "you." We all are a combination of gifts, skills and traits. We all "do" things. Whether we work at home or we have a job. Our skill sets make us who we are, define our abilities and sharing them with others whether we are paid for them or not makes a successful life. We create a life based on those personality traits that define who we are. For me it was being an Artist, for others it's might be being a Mom. In some ways there are similarities. Nursing a project that is close to your heart from start to finish can be like a labor of love. Sending it out in the world and watching the response, can be like watching a child take it's first steps. The excitement and awe at being part of their growth and becoming more independent.
Denied the ability to be who you are or prevented from being your full self is a death. It is a horrible form of abuse and in my opinion a crime. Laws should be tougher and taken more seriously. We need to change our attitudes and raise awareness about this deadly form of abuse. It is not just a lack of money. This type of abuse denies you the ability to take care of yourself. It denies your liberty, pursuit of happiness and in some cases your life. Your livelihood is more than just having some extra money to spend. It encompasses your life. It is made up of the ability to be who and what you are. It allows you to pursue your talents, skills and abilities. Money is one part of that dynamic–being paid for your skills and abilities. Without the ability to pursue them, there is no money. If the skills are prevented from being used there is no compensation. Whether this is pursuing full time employment or a business. This can also be raising children or preventing them from financial means thus destroying their access to a decent life. This kind of abuse includes making sure someone remains impoverished and unable to provide for themselves.
This kind of abuse ruins lives, communities and denies it the talent and resources that are needed in the changing times we live in. Denies people the ability to contribute in a successful manner and impacts more than just the family. When people are denied the ability to be who they are the entire community suffers. From the loss of business and revenue to the volunteering and contributions to community that people make when they are allowed to be who they are. When they are allowed full expression of their humanity. When they are allowed to pursue their goals and passions. When they are paid for these pursuits–we all benefit. Money is one part of this dynamic. Its expression is a way to be compensated for those pursuits. You can also be rewarded in other ways, but money is the preferred method to gage your marketable skills. In the same way we need more respect for the work that is done at home. Raising children, cooking, keeping a pantry and the utility of economics in the home. Being a "stay at home" person involves work. It involves money whether we deny it or not. Often it is unpaid work, but that's how we chose to view it. We all know the labor involved. We all know it should be given more respect than it deserves regardless who does it. It does involve money. We just often ignore that it does. In the same way my business and professional career was ignored. My ability to continue my livelihood–my life. A divorce that did not recognize my agency or the far reaching ramifications of being denied the ability to pursue work by destroying the structures that were put together by me being a "working artist" is extremely abusive the result of which could be death. One of those structures destroyed was my actual Art!
I sat stunned reading the forced settlement papers "dropped out of the workforce," they read. The shock and trauma prevented me from realizing the full scope of the damage that was about to be done to my life. The financial schemes that were done to me would take me the next three years to figure out. The horrible long term damage of not being able to pursue work because that work was not given the respect it deserved. It was not given any consideration. I was not defended, nor was it acknowledged. I was told I just basically never worked. I was not going to be able to be who I was. I was not going to be able to pursue my art or to my eventual horror be compensated for the work I was doing and the work I could continue to do. After recovering from the violence and abuse I endured I learned there was a name for what I experienced in court and from the various agencies involved. The attitudes towards me and the work I did I can only be characterize now as misogynistic.
The morning continues to unfold and I try to write. The thoughts of not working fade away. I check outside and the sun is shining and it's a beautiful Fall day. I take my laptop outside and after completing a few paragraphs know that I have to keep going. The sun feels good and it feels nice to write outside. Today I know that I survived. I survived the horrible abuse that threatened to destroy me, but my finances are a big part of that. A big part of the energy that is sent in and out of my life that creates that very life. I know I'm still an Artist, but without the ability to "do" the art or to have the art–who is to say. Being in a sort of prison–enslaved by legal documents, lack of housing, jobs, car and ability to be working that say I'm no longer a "working Artist." My agency, autonomy and ability to me–violently taken! I'm told now I'm a prostitute to go "walk the street," or go on disability that I'm crazy. The vicious hate with which this was done was ungodly, but today I am a survivor. Today I continue to write and move forward.
I was never what some would call a radical feminist. I live in a rural community. For the most part I was never political. I worked because it was a way for this welfare kid to overcome small town poverty. A place where there were so few opportunities for artists. A place where certain women I was to learn are deliberately denied opportunity. I'm learning that my freedom was always in question, I just never knew. I was successful enough to have moved from the underclass to the middle only to be violently forced back down. Life is hard and lessons are tough.
I look over my writing and I have a few paragraphs. The coffee has kicked in and I'm grateful for my little laptop. Grateful for the world outside of the mob mentality that is trying to deny my ability to live my life. I know in my heart I'm still an Artist. In these times I'm called to be an outspoken one. I have been reluctant. I had always been quiet and shy. I wanted a private life, a life away from fighting and drama, but Art that doesn't piss someone off isn't really Art with a capital "A." My art was rather tame for the past 20yrs. I worked hard for a nice life. I worked hard on being quiet about the abuse. I did not know the real extent of it. Not since college has my art or I gotten such a loud, violent reaction. At my age that is a good thing. Knowing that in telling me how much they hate me they are actually telling me how much my voice is needed. That I can be proud to join many others more talented than I in speaking about these horrible crimes that threaten to destroy our communities. That my art can speak to that. That I can build a new life and create new art that speaks to that. It's not easy, but then I was always good at making something out of nothing. I was told that every area of my life would be destroyed because I am so good at that.
We live in times that call for those skills. The old gives way and there is not much left to salvage–most of it has to go. Outdated ideas of how woman should be, what is really a family and what kind of work best contributes to a healthy community. What kind of people contribute to making that possible. Certainty not those that deny agency or autonomy to others. We all have a part to play as more and more are pushed from the mainstream ability to pursue work, housing, passions and ability to live their lives! Art in these times must answer those calls for help, challenging and helping us see how lost we have become. Even in small ways we are called to make a difference. Even if just saying "no." Consent part of this new dialog. "NO," you're wrong–I am an Artist, I can contribute, I am a survivor and I can move forward! I define my own life, story and identity. I have the right to pursue my life, my liberty and my happiness.
Art that doesn't speak to these times has no place in my life now. Pretty art, pretty people, people that tell me everything is great and they have no problems. I use to think that way too, but the violence erupted in my life in such an extreme way that I'm grateful to have lived through it. It wasn't just personal, which is why I'm public today. Times like these that seek to deny agency to so many–women in particular. I'm called to be political because the times demand it. I want peace, but there is violence in preventing me from living my life. I'm then called to speak about it or write, draw or paint about it, to photograph, put together and sometimes to just give a big what the FUCK? about it. To begin again. I have no work and I can't show you anything really today that would lead you to believe I am a working artist. I make no money, have a job or contribute in a mainstream way–all was stolen and destroyed. I have my words, dreams and struggles. I have my writing and my desire for a better world for all of us. As more and more of us are pushed out of the mainstream by Domestic Violence, Femicides, Economic Abuse and Sexual Violence–we will create new communities. It's not easy. I struggle every day now, but the alternative is regression. The denial of wholeness for something that resembles it, but is horribly restrictive. That enslaves rather than empowers. A world that becomes smaller rather than grows. We all contribute to that, whether consciously or unconsciously.
The morning went by. My anxiety gone. I check my rejection letters about jobs and continue to write. I have to post without spending too much time editing. I'm never sure how long I will be somewhere and might not be able to upload my writing. I had a mentor tell me to just keep writing and don't worry too much about editing, you can have someone edit you later. I have to have that kind of faith now because my circumstances have become so extreme here. The violence has yet to stop. I didn't just become free of one abusive relationship, but a group of people. The network of hate in my community is rather large now. I believe fueled by the political climate we live in. The negative attitudes I have watched over the years have grown more and more extreme. The bullying, verbal and emotional abuse has now crossed the line to physical assaults. This type of behavior is toxic and pathological. I look around at once thriving neighborhoods here and don't recognize them anymore. There are no jobs here and housing is nonexistent. The darkness that stalked me behind my back is now out in the open. I have experienced the vicious attitudes that demand that some should be enslaved so others can exploit them. Today I am a survivor and hope to continue my writing. A small voice contributing to the larger one that wants peace and freedom for us all and not just a few. That only wants to allow certain artists expression. I feel it in my community and know its happening in others. So much violence becomes proof of this suppression and hatred–silencing so many.
Keep being brave, keep writing, doing art and making noise. Keep drawing and painting and knowing that we all count and not just only some of us. That we all contribute to the whole and without each of us the fullness of that expression cannot be seen and lived. We then live as broken, divided and toxic pretenders–faking our way rather than creatively living our full potential. Big words for this artist living in her mothers garage, but I have been told my whole life that I couldn't do what I have wanted to. I did become a success and what I did has worked. The problem was not realizing the others that would so violently want to take it all away. I did not know the full depth of hatred that lurked so close. Welfare kids can make a decent life for themselves. They can be successful, but the snares to entrap you financially must be brought into the open and seen for the crimes they are. As more and more women build careers, money management must be something that is not shrouded in mystery. It must not be taken lightly or for granted. It must be managed like all other facets of a successful life. Marriage and money must be understood and the potential abuses from Economic Abuse must be understood. We all lose when this is denied or hidden.
I am an Artist even if I have no work. I am an Artist even if I have no job. I am an Artist even if I can no longer do my photography, painting or graphic design. I am an Artist even though I can no longer show you anything, but my words. I can only tell you my story now in the hopes it prevents others from experiencing this deadly form of abuse. I am an Artist because I have the soul of a creator.
We are all yet undone. We all strive to be the fullness of ourselves. We either take up the challenge or regress to a safe place where we no longer grow. That stagnant place that often becomes the status quo when left unchecked. When it forgets the journey and settles for the finished product. When everything becomes commodity, when all is–objectified. When we can no longer just be. When we have to be what we are violently told to be rather than who we are. Today I am a survivor. I am an artist and as I continue to write–a writer! I have lost so much, but will not be defined by what is not, but in what can be and what is. The violence is intent on having me believe that without those things to show as proof than I'm not who I say I am. That I'm crazy, incompetent and delusional. That I don't define my own life, story or being. We are certainly more than our things, but those things cannot be denied. Having a good job and decent home are valuable, but having those things and being empty on the inside can be just as deadly. So much of it is illusion. Life is in fact all a stage. Up is down and down is up. In these times it seems even more so.
I sit in this little room in my mothers garage and can laugh a little at where I should be rather than where I am now. That after all my success and hard work this is what has been violently done to me. The lies and collusion to make me appear just a low class, welfare loser again. The stereotypes I grew up with violently asserted themselves again. People I hadn't seen in 20 years getting out their pitch forks. The violence with which my life, belongings and reputation were destroyed brings to mind the witch hunts of old. I had no idea how unhappy these people were. How all their wealth and middle class living was just a facade. How my modest success was made as an example. Not only being a woman, but one who grew up poor and has the audacity to have acquired some success and power. To be able to live my life free of the control and abuse that tormented me for so long. The financial schemes that I would come to see would make it impossible to enjoy the success, money and freedom I so rightfully earned. I have now been jailed and did time, have a "criminal history" and ruined credit and have been locked up in a psych ward and called crazy–all in the past 3yrs.
At the height of my success and the ability to have some power in my community–it was all violently taken away. All planned down to the last detail, setup 20yrs ago at the start of my marriage. The jokes, laughter and vengeance all on display here. It all becomes my art. It all becomes performance art. It is all my proof. It all shows how much art has been created even if my paintings, drawings and photographs have been stolen. A form of performance art showing what happens to underclass women who achieve success in a small community that does not want to acknowledge them. As women struggle for agency and autonomy it is my hope my story becomes part of this movement. I'm inspired by MeToo movement, Erins Law and the many other initiatives and laws that have passed recently that give me hope that we are making strides. That this kind of violence has no place in a sane, civil community, town and society. That I can be a part of that. That I can be writing from this little room and be part of that larger community. That to me is what art is about, however small our efforts. They all count and can add up to something larger. Impacting others in ways we hadn't imagined. You and I have the power to do that.
The creative process is alive. It creates a feed back loop–resonance. We connect and there is network, which is why there is such opposition. No longer forced to take the bullying and violence in our communities, we can seek others. Even if the violence destroys our computers or the harassment continues online. Networks are alive. The creative flow is there regardless of drive to extinguish it. Regardless if you have nothing to show for it. To have nothing to prove you are part of it. It exists in the wanting, desiring and passion that say yes to a life of learning, growing and moving beyond those dark places that seek to enslave or give up. That is always a part of the creative process. It's easier when you have work and can make a living, but there is also the attitude. The willingness to go on in spite of everything being destroyed, stolen or denied. It starts in the believing. Simple cliques that are in fact very powerful. We believe and it becomes so. It's not to say it doesn't involve work, but to have the mind-set also. To believe through the dark times. The times when we are surrounded with those that say we cannot–we have to continue on. We have to continue to fight against the fear that tells us we can no longer start over. The fear that now that everything is gone and we have nothing–we have no proof. We are no longer who we say we are. The violence has destroyed all of that.
My original artwork is gone, but there is art here on this page. This is what remains. In the same way physically I am no longer an artist, as I have no work to show, but spiritually my soul is still that of a creative person. When the violence destroys there is still the still small voice that calls. Some have vehemently told me it's schizophrenic and in doing so want to silence me, but my "proof" like that intuition is on this page. My art no longer exists as real and physical, but only here in cyber space. The bits and bytes of this computer. In the same way my creative connection is. In the network with other artists and creatives like myself who struggle in these times against the violence that has become commonplace. Against labels that define creative muses as schizophrenic hallucinations. That seek to destroy the creative process. To medicate, to control, to deny its many facets. To demonize feelings and intuition. These are not mystical times we live in, but those of us called to tell our stories contribute to the evolving nature of recognizing that when we deny the mystical we will destroy ourselves. The creative process is more than what we produce. More than what we can show.
The leaves are all falling and just about gone. Fall is on its way out. There is the dying and death that is taking place. In the same way my life is still dying. Each day I come to terms with what has been horribly destroyed. The ramifications are still unfolding. It comes in small doses because all of it at once would have most likely killed me. Shock was my friend. It buffered the worst of it even though it left me at times with only partial understanding of what was happening. The trauma wasn't acknowledged, but labeled as mental illness. Another convenient way to silence me. The trauma and shock are gone now, but the documents that label me schizophrenic are everywhere. From the police station to the hospital to a psych ward out of town. All of it a bunch of horrible lies–to cover it all up and silence me. I was told that I wouldn't make it and for a long time wondered why I did. I know now partly to tell my story. My story becomes my art. In surviving I have created a new life. I cringed at first about all the labels–crazy, schizophrenic, domestic violence survivor. In creating new art and a new life these are part of it. Even if some are stories made up to keep me quiet. Keep me from living my life and doing more art. These scars become the art, like the process of beautiful Fall leaves that descend from the trees to the ground, becoming compost–something new that grows next year. The process of living is similar. Living becomes my job. The process of creating in the spaces of all that violence. The way forward when all the doors are locked. The meditation in the stillness that calls to put something together even if there is nothing left to put together. It is this silence, the still small voice that is the knowing. That is real even if there is nothing there yet. The faith that there will be. That the Fall will give way to Winter and come again. The connection between one season and another like the connection of my piece of art here that has no physical presence now. It is only in your viewing it here that it is seen.
It's getting late. I have written for a few hours. The sun is setting earlier now. The days shorter. My work is done for the day. Each day I write there is a sense of moving forward–some work is done. Not that I have any clue where I'm going this time, but in the process I move closer to that place of knowing. Stumbling in the dark and writing about it brings clarity. The process revealing a kind of knowing. A friend that calls to you when you have no clue. I'm alive and I'm living and for today I'm grateful. There are times in life when that's all we can do. When we can no longer "make a living" in the traditional sense. Whether through accident or violence or some other unforeseen circumstances, we can make a commitment to continue to live. To continue to be involved in creative pursuits regardless of how that manifests itself. Even in the simple things there is communion and alignment with the creative flow of life. To know at times that is enough and all we can do. To believe it can get us through because it can regardless of our circumstances and what we don't have. Times we don't have proof.
I wake up most mornings now trying to think of ways to make a living. I try not to scare myself too much even though I am terrified. I tell myself to keep moving forward, take small steps–don't worry. It's easier some days than others. The anxiety grips me between 3-4am and then I can't get back to sleep. I would usually write, but living in someone else's house makes that difficult. I'm staying in a small room in my mother's garage. People have certain rhythms and I'm respectful of that. As a working Artist, I had been looking forward to a more easier schedule. I would have more time to set my own schedule and work my own hours. If I wanted to work all night and sleep all day on a project I could. If I wanted to write late into the night or all morning that would be fine. If I wanted to be out all day Photographing and then editing late at night that would be fine too, but being part of the hidden homeless now doesn't allow for that. After my business was destroyed and everything in my life–the past 3yrs have been brutal. I struggle to put my life together, but the violence continues.
So much has been irrevocably changed. I can no longer paint, shoot photographs or do graphic design. Everything to run my business has been taken. My small business started out making money and I was thrilled that I had made a dream come true. I had an Art Studio and was also painting and showing work on Etsy. All of it was dumped into a storage unit when I was violently put on the street. Evicted from the home I had lived in for 20yrs. I tried to hang on to my personal belongings and business for 3yrs while I searched for stable housing. After 10 evictions, 14 arrests and being jailed recently, the threats of destroying my business and auctioning off my storage unit were done. 20yrs of photography, writing and art are all gone. All the things to run my business are gone. Even my clothes are gone. My ability to get professional employment now is also gone. Background checks, destroyed credit, evictions and having no car are all making professional employment impossible. I'm told that it's delusional to still think of myself as a professional.
I would have never called myself a victim, but today I can say that I'm a victim of Domestic Violence–specifically Economic Abuse. I was emotionally abused, but it has been the financial that has destroyed my life in a way I would have never known to be possible until the last 3yrs, which have been the most harrowing of my life. The devastating impact of this horrible crime has taken from me many things that are irreplaceable. I struggle each day now trying to even think I can even still call myself an Artist, which is devastating. I worked extremely hard all my life and was modestly successful. Starting my business was a dream come true. I had sacrificed, saved and studied and was just starting to earn some money, get noticed and know that I could do the work and help my clients in a way I could be proud of. It had taken me a decade of being a corporate designer to have the confidence to say that. To know that I could deliver the final product on time, within budget and make the client happy to do business with me. That I possessed the skills necessary to be successful.
Economic Abuse is more than just someone taking your money. It is a destruction of your very self by using money as the means. To prevent you from being "you." We all are a combination of gifts, skills and traits. We all "do" things. Whether we work at home or we have a job. Our skill sets make us who we are, define our abilities and sharing them with others whether we are paid for them or not makes a successful life. We create a life based on those personality traits that define who we are. For me it was being an Artist, for others it's might be being a Mom. In some ways there are similarities. Nursing a project that is close to your heart from start to finish can be like a labor of love. Sending it out in the world and watching the response, can be like watching a child take it's first steps. The excitement and awe at being part of their growth and becoming more independent.
Denied the ability to be who you are or prevented from being your full self is a death. It is a horrible form of abuse and in my opinion a crime. Laws should be tougher and taken more seriously. We need to change our attitudes and raise awareness about this deadly form of abuse. It is not just a lack of money. This type of abuse denies you the ability to take care of yourself. It denies your liberty, pursuit of happiness and in some cases your life. Your livelihood is more than just having some extra money to spend. It encompasses your life. It is made up of the ability to be who and what you are. It allows you to pursue your talents, skills and abilities. Money is one part of that dynamic–being paid for your skills and abilities. Without the ability to pursue them, there is no money. If the skills are prevented from being used there is no compensation. Whether this is pursuing full time employment or a business. This can also be raising children or preventing them from financial means thus destroying their access to a decent life. This kind of abuse includes making sure someone remains impoverished and unable to provide for themselves.
This kind of abuse ruins lives, communities and denies it the talent and resources that are needed in the changing times we live in. Denies people the ability to contribute in a successful manner and impacts more than just the family. When people are denied the ability to be who they are the entire community suffers. From the loss of business and revenue to the volunteering and contributions to community that people make when they are allowed to be who they are. When they are allowed full expression of their humanity. When they are allowed to pursue their goals and passions. When they are paid for these pursuits–we all benefit. Money is one part of this dynamic. Its expression is a way to be compensated for those pursuits. You can also be rewarded in other ways, but money is the preferred method to gage your marketable skills. In the same way we need more respect for the work that is done at home. Raising children, cooking, keeping a pantry and the utility of economics in the home. Being a "stay at home" person involves work. It involves money whether we deny it or not. Often it is unpaid work, but that's how we chose to view it. We all know the labor involved. We all know it should be given more respect than it deserves regardless who does it. It does involve money. We just often ignore that it does. In the same way my business and professional career was ignored. My ability to continue my livelihood–my life. A divorce that did not recognize my agency or the far reaching ramifications of being denied the ability to pursue work by destroying the structures that were put together by me being a "working artist" is extremely abusive the result of which could be death. One of those structures destroyed was my actual Art!
I sat stunned reading the forced settlement papers "dropped out of the workforce," they read. The shock and trauma prevented me from realizing the full scope of the damage that was about to be done to my life. The financial schemes that were done to me would take me the next three years to figure out. The horrible long term damage of not being able to pursue work because that work was not given the respect it deserved. It was not given any consideration. I was not defended, nor was it acknowledged. I was told I just basically never worked. I was not going to be able to be who I was. I was not going to be able to pursue my art or to my eventual horror be compensated for the work I was doing and the work I could continue to do. After recovering from the violence and abuse I endured I learned there was a name for what I experienced in court and from the various agencies involved. The attitudes towards me and the work I did I can only be characterize now as misogynistic.
The morning continues to unfold and I try to write. The thoughts of not working fade away. I check outside and the sun is shining and it's a beautiful Fall day. I take my laptop outside and after completing a few paragraphs know that I have to keep going. The sun feels good and it feels nice to write outside. Today I know that I survived. I survived the horrible abuse that threatened to destroy me, but my finances are a big part of that. A big part of the energy that is sent in and out of my life that creates that very life. I know I'm still an Artist, but without the ability to "do" the art or to have the art–who is to say. Being in a sort of prison–enslaved by legal documents, lack of housing, jobs, car and ability to be working that say I'm no longer a "working Artist." My agency, autonomy and ability to me–violently taken! I'm told now I'm a prostitute to go "walk the street," or go on disability that I'm crazy. The vicious hate with which this was done was ungodly, but today I am a survivor. Today I continue to write and move forward.
I was never what some would call a radical feminist. I live in a rural community. For the most part I was never political. I worked because it was a way for this welfare kid to overcome small town poverty. A place where there were so few opportunities for artists. A place where certain women I was to learn are deliberately denied opportunity. I'm learning that my freedom was always in question, I just never knew. I was successful enough to have moved from the underclass to the middle only to be violently forced back down. Life is hard and lessons are tough.
I look over my writing and I have a few paragraphs. The coffee has kicked in and I'm grateful for my little laptop. Grateful for the world outside of the mob mentality that is trying to deny my ability to live my life. I know in my heart I'm still an Artist. In these times I'm called to be an outspoken one. I have been reluctant. I had always been quiet and shy. I wanted a private life, a life away from fighting and drama, but Art that doesn't piss someone off isn't really Art with a capital "A." My art was rather tame for the past 20yrs. I worked hard for a nice life. I worked hard on being quiet about the abuse. I did not know the real extent of it. Not since college has my art or I gotten such a loud, violent reaction. At my age that is a good thing. Knowing that in telling me how much they hate me they are actually telling me how much my voice is needed. That I can be proud to join many others more talented than I in speaking about these horrible crimes that threaten to destroy our communities. That my art can speak to that. That I can build a new life and create new art that speaks to that. It's not easy, but then I was always good at making something out of nothing. I was told that every area of my life would be destroyed because I am so good at that.
We live in times that call for those skills. The old gives way and there is not much left to salvage–most of it has to go. Outdated ideas of how woman should be, what is really a family and what kind of work best contributes to a healthy community. What kind of people contribute to making that possible. Certainty not those that deny agency or autonomy to others. We all have a part to play as more and more are pushed from the mainstream ability to pursue work, housing, passions and ability to live their lives! Art in these times must answer those calls for help, challenging and helping us see how lost we have become. Even in small ways we are called to make a difference. Even if just saying "no." Consent part of this new dialog. "NO," you're wrong–I am an Artist, I can contribute, I am a survivor and I can move forward! I define my own life, story and identity. I have the right to pursue my life, my liberty and my happiness.
Art that doesn't speak to these times has no place in my life now. Pretty art, pretty people, people that tell me everything is great and they have no problems. I use to think that way too, but the violence erupted in my life in such an extreme way that I'm grateful to have lived through it. It wasn't just personal, which is why I'm public today. Times like these that seek to deny agency to so many–women in particular. I'm called to be political because the times demand it. I want peace, but there is violence in preventing me from living my life. I'm then called to speak about it or write, draw or paint about it, to photograph, put together and sometimes to just give a big what the FUCK? about it. To begin again. I have no work and I can't show you anything really today that would lead you to believe I am a working artist. I make no money, have a job or contribute in a mainstream way–all was stolen and destroyed. I have my words, dreams and struggles. I have my writing and my desire for a better world for all of us. As more and more of us are pushed out of the mainstream by Domestic Violence, Femicides, Economic Abuse and Sexual Violence–we will create new communities. It's not easy. I struggle every day now, but the alternative is regression. The denial of wholeness for something that resembles it, but is horribly restrictive. That enslaves rather than empowers. A world that becomes smaller rather than grows. We all contribute to that, whether consciously or unconsciously.
The morning went by. My anxiety gone. I check my rejection letters about jobs and continue to write. I have to post without spending too much time editing. I'm never sure how long I will be somewhere and might not be able to upload my writing. I had a mentor tell me to just keep writing and don't worry too much about editing, you can have someone edit you later. I have to have that kind of faith now because my circumstances have become so extreme here. The violence has yet to stop. I didn't just become free of one abusive relationship, but a group of people. The network of hate in my community is rather large now. I believe fueled by the political climate we live in. The negative attitudes I have watched over the years have grown more and more extreme. The bullying, verbal and emotional abuse has now crossed the line to physical assaults. This type of behavior is toxic and pathological. I look around at once thriving neighborhoods here and don't recognize them anymore. There are no jobs here and housing is nonexistent. The darkness that stalked me behind my back is now out in the open. I have experienced the vicious attitudes that demand that some should be enslaved so others can exploit them. Today I am a survivor and hope to continue my writing. A small voice contributing to the larger one that wants peace and freedom for us all and not just a few. That only wants to allow certain artists expression. I feel it in my community and know its happening in others. So much violence becomes proof of this suppression and hatred–silencing so many.
Keep being brave, keep writing, doing art and making noise. Keep drawing and painting and knowing that we all count and not just only some of us. That we all contribute to the whole and without each of us the fullness of that expression cannot be seen and lived. We then live as broken, divided and toxic pretenders–faking our way rather than creatively living our full potential. Big words for this artist living in her mothers garage, but I have been told my whole life that I couldn't do what I have wanted to. I did become a success and what I did has worked. The problem was not realizing the others that would so violently want to take it all away. I did not know the full depth of hatred that lurked so close. Welfare kids can make a decent life for themselves. They can be successful, but the snares to entrap you financially must be brought into the open and seen for the crimes they are. As more and more women build careers, money management must be something that is not shrouded in mystery. It must not be taken lightly or for granted. It must be managed like all other facets of a successful life. Marriage and money must be understood and the potential abuses from Economic Abuse must be understood. We all lose when this is denied or hidden.
I am an Artist even if I have no work. I am an Artist even if I have no job. I am an Artist even if I can no longer do my photography, painting or graphic design. I am an Artist even though I can no longer show you anything, but my words. I can only tell you my story now in the hopes it prevents others from experiencing this deadly form of abuse. I am an Artist because I have the soul of a creator.
We are all yet undone. We all strive to be the fullness of ourselves. We either take up the challenge or regress to a safe place where we no longer grow. That stagnant place that often becomes the status quo when left unchecked. When it forgets the journey and settles for the finished product. When everything becomes commodity, when all is–objectified. When we can no longer just be. When we have to be what we are violently told to be rather than who we are. Today I am a survivor. I am an artist and as I continue to write–a writer! I have lost so much, but will not be defined by what is not, but in what can be and what is. The violence is intent on having me believe that without those things to show as proof than I'm not who I say I am. That I'm crazy, incompetent and delusional. That I don't define my own life, story or being. We are certainly more than our things, but those things cannot be denied. Having a good job and decent home are valuable, but having those things and being empty on the inside can be just as deadly. So much of it is illusion. Life is in fact all a stage. Up is down and down is up. In these times it seems even more so.
I sit in this little room in my mothers garage and can laugh a little at where I should be rather than where I am now. That after all my success and hard work this is what has been violently done to me. The lies and collusion to make me appear just a low class, welfare loser again. The stereotypes I grew up with violently asserted themselves again. People I hadn't seen in 20 years getting out their pitch forks. The violence with which my life, belongings and reputation were destroyed brings to mind the witch hunts of old. I had no idea how unhappy these people were. How all their wealth and middle class living was just a facade. How my modest success was made as an example. Not only being a woman, but one who grew up poor and has the audacity to have acquired some success and power. To be able to live my life free of the control and abuse that tormented me for so long. The financial schemes that I would come to see would make it impossible to enjoy the success, money and freedom I so rightfully earned. I have now been jailed and did time, have a "criminal history" and ruined credit and have been locked up in a psych ward and called crazy–all in the past 3yrs.
At the height of my success and the ability to have some power in my community–it was all violently taken away. All planned down to the last detail, setup 20yrs ago at the start of my marriage. The jokes, laughter and vengeance all on display here. It all becomes my art. It all becomes performance art. It is all my proof. It all shows how much art has been created even if my paintings, drawings and photographs have been stolen. A form of performance art showing what happens to underclass women who achieve success in a small community that does not want to acknowledge them. As women struggle for agency and autonomy it is my hope my story becomes part of this movement. I'm inspired by MeToo movement, Erins Law and the many other initiatives and laws that have passed recently that give me hope that we are making strides. That this kind of violence has no place in a sane, civil community, town and society. That I can be a part of that. That I can be writing from this little room and be part of that larger community. That to me is what art is about, however small our efforts. They all count and can add up to something larger. Impacting others in ways we hadn't imagined. You and I have the power to do that.
The creative process is alive. It creates a feed back loop–resonance. We connect and there is network, which is why there is such opposition. No longer forced to take the bullying and violence in our communities, we can seek others. Even if the violence destroys our computers or the harassment continues online. Networks are alive. The creative flow is there regardless of drive to extinguish it. Regardless if you have nothing to show for it. To have nothing to prove you are part of it. It exists in the wanting, desiring and passion that say yes to a life of learning, growing and moving beyond those dark places that seek to enslave or give up. That is always a part of the creative process. It's easier when you have work and can make a living, but there is also the attitude. The willingness to go on in spite of everything being destroyed, stolen or denied. It starts in the believing. Simple cliques that are in fact very powerful. We believe and it becomes so. It's not to say it doesn't involve work, but to have the mind-set also. To believe through the dark times. The times when we are surrounded with those that say we cannot–we have to continue on. We have to continue to fight against the fear that tells us we can no longer start over. The fear that now that everything is gone and we have nothing–we have no proof. We are no longer who we say we are. The violence has destroyed all of that.
My original artwork is gone, but there is art here on this page. This is what remains. In the same way physically I am no longer an artist, as I have no work to show, but spiritually my soul is still that of a creative person. When the violence destroys there is still the still small voice that calls. Some have vehemently told me it's schizophrenic and in doing so want to silence me, but my "proof" like that intuition is on this page. My art no longer exists as real and physical, but only here in cyber space. The bits and bytes of this computer. In the same way my creative connection is. In the network with other artists and creatives like myself who struggle in these times against the violence that has become commonplace. Against labels that define creative muses as schizophrenic hallucinations. That seek to destroy the creative process. To medicate, to control, to deny its many facets. To demonize feelings and intuition. These are not mystical times we live in, but those of us called to tell our stories contribute to the evolving nature of recognizing that when we deny the mystical we will destroy ourselves. The creative process is more than what we produce. More than what we can show.
The leaves are all falling and just about gone. Fall is on its way out. There is the dying and death that is taking place. In the same way my life is still dying. Each day I come to terms with what has been horribly destroyed. The ramifications are still unfolding. It comes in small doses because all of it at once would have most likely killed me. Shock was my friend. It buffered the worst of it even though it left me at times with only partial understanding of what was happening. The trauma wasn't acknowledged, but labeled as mental illness. Another convenient way to silence me. The trauma and shock are gone now, but the documents that label me schizophrenic are everywhere. From the police station to the hospital to a psych ward out of town. All of it a bunch of horrible lies–to cover it all up and silence me. I was told that I wouldn't make it and for a long time wondered why I did. I know now partly to tell my story. My story becomes my art. In surviving I have created a new life. I cringed at first about all the labels–crazy, schizophrenic, domestic violence survivor. In creating new art and a new life these are part of it. Even if some are stories made up to keep me quiet. Keep me from living my life and doing more art. These scars become the art, like the process of beautiful Fall leaves that descend from the trees to the ground, becoming compost–something new that grows next year. The process of living is similar. Living becomes my job. The process of creating in the spaces of all that violence. The way forward when all the doors are locked. The meditation in the stillness that calls to put something together even if there is nothing left to put together. It is this silence, the still small voice that is the knowing. That is real even if there is nothing there yet. The faith that there will be. That the Fall will give way to Winter and come again. The connection between one season and another like the connection of my piece of art here that has no physical presence now. It is only in your viewing it here that it is seen.
It's getting late. I have written for a few hours. The sun is setting earlier now. The days shorter. My work is done for the day. Each day I write there is a sense of moving forward–some work is done. Not that I have any clue where I'm going this time, but in the process I move closer to that place of knowing. Stumbling in the dark and writing about it brings clarity. The process revealing a kind of knowing. A friend that calls to you when you have no clue. I'm alive and I'm living and for today I'm grateful. There are times in life when that's all we can do. When we can no longer "make a living" in the traditional sense. Whether through accident or violence or some other unforeseen circumstances, we can make a commitment to continue to live. To continue to be involved in creative pursuits regardless of how that manifests itself. Even in the simple things there is communion and alignment with the creative flow of life. To know at times that is enough and all we can do. To believe it can get us through because it can regardless of our circumstances and what we don't have. Times we don't have proof.
Girl and Dove
original acrylic, collage on watercolor paper.
art of mine that was stolen.
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