what we learn from each otherpublished: 2011-03-10
I wandered from room to room, absorbing their drawings and paintings, uninfluenced by anyone else’s presence. Just me and their works of art. The pieces were difficult to look at, unsettling and confrontational. Contorting female bodies, anatomical regurgitations, physical exhaustion, tension. Their subjects were placed amidst hellish nightmares of dancers and children and furry greens and browns, bloody reds.
I stood there feeling the works as opposed to simply admiring them. They spoke straight to my anxieties as a woman, as a mother, as a writer.
One of the artists once told me how aware she is that this style of work doesn’t sell. She showed me some other works of hers: a woman’s back, set against golds and flowery patterns. “Whereas this stuff does,” she stated. People prefer to escape in pretty and logical constructs.
I cherish sharing office space with these fine artists. Their work is a tangible reminder of any artist’s challenge: only vulnerability exposes the universal truth behind the images we portray.