Your Melancholy Masterpiece

This piece was inspired by Picasso’s painting “The Weeping Woman” (shown below), and his relationship with its model, Dora Maar, who was a painter, activist, poet, and amazing surrealist photographer. This is an inner monologue from the perspective of any woman (or maybe some men too) who have ever been told they were too sensitive, and/or who have been in an emotionally abusive relationship.

Weeping Woman 1937 by Pablo Picasso 1881-1973

Your Melancholy Masterpiece

You called me the Weeping Woman. An irrational, overemotional basket case. You love it because it makes me weak; you hate it because it makes me dangerous. You took the liberty of giving me a name. What about the name I gave myself?

An inferior specimen of an inferior sex. You would cherish me if I were only a better person, more in control of my emotions and more dutiful. If I would give up those foolish and improper pastimes. If I were someone else. Docile, impeccable, and pliant as a doll.

You call me a crazy bitch after pushing all my buttons in quick succession, lighting a fire and spewing gasoline. Then you stand back and wait for the opportunity to say, “You’re too defensive. Why are you crying? Oh right, mental illness runs in your family. No wonder you flew off the handle at me!”

I wasn’t always this way:

There were sunny days
I sprouted, I blossomed, I reigned
Reveling in my power
Dappled with paint and accolades
I could do anything
I could be anything
You plucked and fixed me on your wall
Where you could examine me
Your flawed private muse
Take me down when you wanted me
You never saw me as I am
You don’t love me as I am

I wanted to die in that closet. I locked myself in the bedroom while you pummeled the door. My head was pounding until I thought it would burst. We had fought again, and I died a little inside. You will never feel it. You always laugh when I insist I hate crowds because everyone else’s energy flows into me. Discord makes me physically ill. Are you blind that you don’t see you’re poisoning me?

You say my family is low and my friends are low. My tastes are low, and I am low. “I’m only trying to help you. Don’t you know what you could be if you did your proper duty, if you spent time with the right people?” Am I really such a villain in your mind? I know I’m no prize angel, and that’s why I need to change. I’ve already given up so much of myself for you and it’s never enough. You tear off pieces of me with your teeth until there’s nothing left, and ask me again why I’m crying.

You scorn my intensity and dark moods. They’re disturbing. A woman shouldn’t be crying about the genocide in a distant country. “What can you do about it anyways? Are you going to fly over there and help them? Where’s my shirt? Where is my lunch?” I know it makes you angry when I don’t cut the onions small enough and when there’s a crease in your collar. Fighting fascism means neglecting your needs.

You wanted me to do something with my appearance so I’d be fit for decent society but when I did, you asked me who I was trying to impress. I don’t fit in with your social circle. “Say something. Why do you sit in the corner like that?” But when the little woman shows her claws and expresses an opinion, it’s “Why did you say that? Don’t you know that what you say reflects on me?” They’re all waiting for me to break. I really did fall down the stairs, I swear.

Llorona, you’re barred from grace
Your past will haunt you always
I will press it against your throat
No one wants you lurking near
With your silence and somber face
Your wailing sets my hair on end.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you taken care of? You have no grounds to be offended.” You tell me no one else can ever love me, and you’re right. No one would want me, pitiful, used, and broken as I am. I’d be cast out with the trash, forgotten, relegated to a houseful of cats.

I know that I’m only valuable because I’m yours. What would I do without you? How would I survive out there? You’ve stripped me and clipped my wings, and I’ve forgotten how to hunt. Is it too late? Can I soar free again?

Art is in my blood

terra-papers-leonora-carrington

Art is in my blood.

I remember my dad teaching me to color when I was young, and now I see how much my young daughter enjoys coloring. It would be an honor to provide art classes for her if she wants them. Watching her, hazy memories gradually materialize.

Much later, teachers started telling me I had talent. I suppose I was good for my age. But really, it was a fierce passion. I adored the smooth feel of chalk pastels in my hand and the saturated hues of them on paper. Having paint on my hands was a point of pride, and a reminder of what was waiting for me at home. Most of my best memories of high school involve art somehow.

In those days, I used my face, hair, and body as a canvas as well. I suppose now I have to look like an adult, whatever that means these days, and hold it all inside. At least most of the time.

I’ve never been a huge fan of Renaissance and Baroque painting, with a few notable exceptions. I adore impressionism and abstracts, in bold colors with high contrast.

When I went to college, I didn’t make much time to paint, and I didn’t take art classes. I figured I could pick up later where I’d left off. I wasn’t going to be a professional artist, after all. I should focus on my “real” future.

Of course, I couldn’t pick up where I’d left off. I’d lost all the ability I had. That is one of the biggest regrets of my life. I can barely draw a chair or a hand now, and it’s agonizing. I want to start taking classes again. Naturally, I would have to start all over, but maybe it would come back to me and I’d be able to progress quickly. Later. I should focus on my “real” future.

But still, art is what I see when I close my eyes. Splashes of color and how they fit together, what could be done with them if I dared. Soon. This time, I mean it.

*The painting at the top is Terra-papers by Leonora Carrington

Greed, the Father of War

the_father_and_mother

Greed, the Father of War

In the prologue of his novel The Moonstone, Wilkie Collins describes the storming of Seringapatam, which took place in 1799. During the battle, a British soldier named John Herncastle brutally murders three Indian men in order to confiscate a large, yellow diamond, called the Moonstone, which he coveted. I remember thinking at the time, “How can someone value a diamond over human lives?” Of course, that thought was immediately followed by the realization that most of the killing that happens, and has happened, in the world is due to greed – due to someone, or a group of people, believing that their personal comfort is more important than another person’s life or well-being. Humans are inherently selfish creatures, after all. Cartoonist Boardman Robinson depicted Greed and Pride as the father and mother of War (see picture above).

Collins’ account of Herncastle and the diamond is fictional, but the battles fought between the British and Indians were real. Why did the British take over so much of India in the first place? To protect the business interests of the East India Company. The economic stability for a British company was deemed more important than the self-determination and well-being of the local Indians. Of course, the British also saw themselves as a civilizational and missionary force in their colonies, but those were not the real reasons they were there. Were the Opium Wars fought in the interest of enhancing the well-being of East Asians?

The British are not the only culprits. Many other European countries colonized parts of Africa, Asia, and the Americas, wiping out or enslaving the original inhabitants, stealing land and resources, bringing diseases and foreign intoxicants, and overturning local leadership. Today, countries continue to fight each other over land and resources, especially oil. Do those in charge ever stop to think that the owners of these resources are also human beings, and that they deserve to live in safety and comfort?

In The Moonstone, several human lives are sacrificed for the sake of a diamond. In our times, blood diamonds, or conflict diamonds, fund militants and utilize unpaid and/or forced labor. Child labor, unpaid or underpaid labor, and forced labor is an issue in many industries, including chocolate, cotton, clothing, and electronics. By buying chocolate without a Fairtrade label, I could be giving money to someone who beats underage workers who were tricked into taking a job on a cocoa farm, and who are now not allowed to leave. By choosing the cheaper chocolate, am I not placing my own comfort and enjoyment over the lives of others? Do I know who harvested the cotton for my clothes, or who stitched the fabric? Do I know where all the components of my computer came from?

With our modern lives, it is next to impossible to answer all these questions with certainty. The supply and production chains are too long and non-transparent. Most of us cannot imagine life without computers, mobile phones, airplanes, plastic, and sugar. Most of us do not know how to make our own clothes and, even if we did, we don’t know how to weave the fabric from ethically-sourced cotton. Because of this, we are all guilty.

*The above photo was found on Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boardman_Robinson#/media/File:The_Father_and_Mother.jpg