I have completely lost my ability to draw, paint, create any kind of satisfying visual work; yet another piece of me that’s been stolen from my brain/body by my brain/body. Devastated. What a waster, what a fucking waster, you’ve pissed it all up the wall…
Watched Francis Bacon: A Brush with Violence (2017) and now I feel strange – re-obsessed with his life, art, lovers, mind, he’s affected me all over again – I have such a strong desire/need to paint my pain but I’ve no idea how to convey the weight of it – in my shoulders, spine, head, neck, heart, skin, hair. I try to write it, of course – I have always tried – but I still haven’t managed to accurately write the sheer fucking weight of [everything inside me]. Maybe there are no words for this, for this pain – I’m more convinced that it can be portrayed with paint, but how? A canvas must be found. A brush must be selected. An attempt must be made: not on my life, but with paint.
All of my acrylics have dried out. My art box was stored in my friend’s garage, for what was supposed to be a couple of weeks in September. They remained there, during the winter months, until April. They wasted away before they were able to expend all of their magnificent potential. I am responsible for their deaths; even worse, I am responsible for failing to let them live. I do not deserve nice things.
Nanny died 9 days before my 4th birthday. That was when Dad had to explain the cycle of life and death to me; that Nanny was poorly and God needed a new angel so he chose her; that Nanny loved me very much and she was up in heaven, watching over me. After the funeral, Dad came home and saw me out in the garden, standing in the middle of the lawn, holding a big piece of paper up above my head, facing skyward. He watched me hold it up for a short while, then carefully lay it down on the grass. Then I selected another sheet from the pile of paper by my feet, and held it up to the sky. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Showing Nanny my paintings,” I replied, before putting the paper down and holding another one of my artworks up high.
Time to attempt to translate all of this pain onto this thin blank page; the way the paper shakes suggests that it, too, believes that it cannot hold the weight.
It appears that I have not grown out of my old habit of destroying whatever I create with angry tears and naked flames. Tomorrow, we go again.
You spent your savings
on drugs + space + fancy new paints
then failed to create
anything other than shame
Tonight, we go again. I will not burn whatever I make, I will not rip it up or throw it away. (Although I probably won’t let it ever see the light of day).