Every Line Stays
I was born an artist- as we all are. When I was young it did not matter whether or not I was good just that I was. Somewhere along the way I got inundated with this idea that to create I had to bend my imagination and my work into acceptable forms of beauty for society. Everything that I created was held under a microscope and at the notice of anything I perceived as wrong, I would immediately destroy my art. This was the way I lived until my 15th year of life.
Me and Mrs. Brozovich
10th grade I took no art classes, as my schedule wouldn’t permit. But I would spend my lunch times in the art classroom with Mrs. Brozovich, searching in the bins of scrap paper and unused mediums to make art on my own terms. This was the year I learned to draw in ink. Every line on my paper would have to just be.
This was also the year I fell in loved with mixed media art. I learned how to collage and did not look back. I embraced the idea that everything I need is already here if I can find it. Then I can rearrange what I found to see anew. My canvas learnned to hold life. Messy. Unafraid. Perfect. And whenever I stumbled on my way to a finished product I would let the mistake stay. Sometimes I covered it up and sometimes I weaved it into the piece. But I let it stay in the picture and learned for next time. I spent the entire year cherishing the process of creation and opening myself to how to refine my craft. I committed myself to learning the ‘rules’ of art so I could break them in every way I pleased.
10th grade seems so far removed from me I sometimes wonder if it was lived in a different life. But recently I was going through my visual journal from high school and I realized I have been me all along. Yes, I have changed and evolved and wandered and found since then, but I still am Karen. A conglomeration of all I have picked up along the way arranged daily to live anew. I am in a constant state of recreation; I would not have it any other way.
11th grade I signed up for four art classes. 12th grade I took AP Art Studio.
Every so often I would break out a clean white canvas, buy some paint, grab some magazines, scissors, glue, and pens and try to get started again. My finished products were always rugged and raw, screaming from my voice and proving I still have the skills. But my hands payed the price. Every time.
12th grade I severed 90% of my radial nerve in my dominant arm. I finished the course with my other hand, submitted my portfolio, and then decided to take a break from visual art for the health of my hands. I messed around some, wrote a book, took up pole dancing classes, fancied myself a (adequate) singer, and tried to stay away from paintbrushes and pens. Every so often I would break out a clean white canvas, buy some paint, grab some magazines, scissors, glue, and pens and try to get started again. My finished products were always rugged and raw, screaming from my voice and proving I still have the skills. But my hands payed the price. Every time.
I always thought I would be able to return to visual art. Maybe not the same inside, but my arms would cooperate and what I imagined, I would produce. This was not the case. My creations were conceived from love but birthed through painful labour. So, to my utter heartbreak, I stopped altogether (aside from a couple commissions).
But art has been on my mind of recent. This is both thanks to the invitation to illustrate my book, and to the call for people to create during quarantine and social distancing.
First, to whoever is saying now is the time create your magnum opus:
FUCK THAT.
Second, to my hands which refuse to work pain-free and do not move smoothly or fully anymore:
I forgive you for letting me down. And I will stop using you as an excuse to not do art. I will create again, with or without you. I will love you all the same, though.
Art, after all, is for the maker. Every witness is just blessed to be able to partake in observance.
This is me telling you, world, that I will be doing art again. Visual art, to be exact. Also, I will continue writing. And dancing. And singing. And leaning into the good so far that I will not lose myself again in a life that is not for me. This is also me inviting you to create with me. We do not have to subscribe the the bullshit that what we produce has to be our best. Or something worthy of love from society. Hell, we don’t even have to show anyone what we are working on. Because art, after all, is for the maker. Every witness is just blessed to be able to partake in observance.
2001
So if you need me during this time of quarantine and social distancing I will be creating. Nothing spectacular. Just me and my paint, magazines, scissors, glue, and pens. Just me and my faulty hands- maybe even my feet and mouth. Self expression, riddled with welcome mistakes and open possibilities. Me and my ink, every line stays.
After all, I am Artist; I was born this way. And so were you.
P.S.
Perhaps, I will create my magnum opus. But I will not start off with that goal in mind. I will just start.
P.P.S.
Sorry for the bad language. Kinda. The more I grow the less filtered I become. And my art and writing will be a reflection of me- no longer content to be censored.
