ART SERIES .01/81 - ALL THE COLOURS SHE FORGOT
ALL ARTWORKS FOR SALE
Springtime is here —
Oh, visit the earth,
ask her to join the dance!
Deck her out in spring showers,
fill the God-River with living water.
Paint the wheat fields golden.
Creation was made for this!
Drench the plowed fields,
soak the dirt clods
With rainfall as harrow and rake
bring her to blossom and fruit. \
2018 has been a year of mending, of unexpected adventures and of finding (clarity and new hues and truth and the list goes on).
The process of healing is a long and gruelling one, and compartmentalising made me able to grow in courage and to function responsibly — anyone in the valley chapter relate?
As September approached, I found myself on a 21-hour flight across the world to Seattle, Washington — my heart, free of the safe boxes I had built for myself through this process. While they were helpful and necessary in the last 8 months, it felt like the time had come to open the doors and to breathe again. It felt like, Spring.
Seattle was a dream. It was cloudy blue skies, a collision of nature and city, and all shades of colours I began to realise were already a part of me. I fell in love with the bookstores, the perpetual scent of coffee and the blind wandering about through foreign streets.
My buddy of 10 years got married to the love of her life. I got to photograph their special day (mostly wrecked from happy tears), and finally met the faces to names I had heard over our skype conversations in the past 5 years. The wedding was in a giant lavender farm up north. The weather was perfect. I made a new friend. He took us to Portland and I lived out my 17 year old Kinfolk dream.
It gets better.
Honne happened to be playing at the ShowBox so, on the night of the 12th of September, I stood approximately ten feet from James Hatcher and Andy Clutterbuck, heart fully woke, feet ready to dance like I haven’t in a long time. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed music — and authentically. It didn’t matter whether or not I knew the words to every song, or if I was acquainted with the people around me. Every chord was tugging at my chest. There was little to no personal space in the crowd and wave after wave of pushing and cheering and off-key singing enveloping me. It was wild. A slightly shy, awkward body-bobbing sort of wild, but wild nonetheless.
Many would be familiar with MoPOP and it’s distinct, unique architecture. I had to research on Frank Gehry back in art school and I passed out internally for a quarter of a second when I realised this was real life - my feet were kissing the ground of an actual Frank Gehry art piece. (!!!?)
The other soul awakening moments are tougher to articulate, but in summary, the trip felt like an open heaven riptide within my heart. The colours were chaotic and vibrant yet deep down below the noise, they were settled, stable and sure. The wounds that once were, weren’t without blemishes, but instead of scars, they were slowly becoming beauty marks - of faith, of hope, and of love.
I was beginning to understand that maybe the response to “when will it get better?” was that it just becomes different. And if we don’t lose ourselves to the hard times, we’d find ourselves, and more alive and more honest than before. There is no perfect answer to the questions we are confronted with in our valleys, but faith, hope and love never gets old. And she reveals to us the intricacies of who we were created to be.
This series of work isn’t the retrospect of time away at a vacation. It’s a love letter from me to you, about the mending process; the reconciliation between our spent soul and the dreams we were crafted to dream. The many months of bitter tears turn sweet, and the breathless, heart aching chapters finding its breathtaking moment of ‘it was worth it’.
And it was. Worth it. Finding courage, truth, forgiveness. Gaining colour - the ones we lost and the ones we never met. So, until the next round of adventure spiel, I wish you the courage to heal and to dream again, and the audacity to seize the authenticity of all the hues you were weaved to be — never apologising for your narrative. Because you are worth loving, right where you are.
With that, here is All The Colours She Forgot (.01/81) x