Karyn in repose.
Previous blogs have exposed some of the darker depths found in my journey, and the reasons for writing my book, but I wanted to share the artistic side of myself. A facet that emerged in the last five years of my twenty-year violent domestic nightmare, after a rare cancer diagnosis, and while in the throes of anorexia.
On a gorgeous sunny day, recuperating from surgery, I took to the outdoors where a balmy breeze caressed my skin, eased my frazzled nerves. A light sleep swept over me when a palm frond banged to the ground. Startled, I stared at the intruder. Without thought, I snared the woody pod and visions danced through my head. What made me think to paint upon the tree’s castoff is beyond me, but I purchased a few jars of pigment and an experiment took root.
To my amazement, I discovered a hidden talent, one that would sustain me through my ordeals. One that made me a believer. The silver lining in storm clouds does exist.
Tree of Life, Painting on glass
Soon, every inch of living space was packed with my artwork. Hand-decorated wineglasses, bottles, mirrors, buckets, pallet wood, pottery, and canvas laid in corners, on furniture, everywhere. I realized that the hoarding-like atmosphere needed to be dealt with. I couldn’t just keep producing.
With reality and logic in tow, far from my comfort zone, I somehow garnered the gumption to approach a local gift shop owner. As luck would have it, she was in search for someone like me, and thus began a mutually satisfying consignment relationship.
What a blessing when my renderings were well-received, and many people requested notification as soon as new articles arrived in the store. The success pleased me, yet I preferred to remain anonymous, silent, and unsociable as my raising fashioned me, and my master demanded.
Without forewarning, my controller/husband fell into fits of rage, threatening to destroy what I created. The concentration to my task was frowned upon as this took time away from him. Not every second was spent catering to his every command. Yet, he loved one aspect. Money, cha-ching. Not that my endeavors brought much, but enough to sometimes stave his ire.
Goodness, I wasn’t going to expound on negatives in this piece, but the distasteful and sad components influenced the end results. Early paintings consisted of lone subjects and muted tones. The unhappy inner workings can be seen in color selection.
Quite a surprise that doom and gloom blacks, greys, and browns didn’t dominate my work, but my buried hope dared to shine through in brighter hues.
With my mind entrenched on the subject matter, composition, mediums, and a wide array of applications, I drifted into another realm. A place of peace, of genuine joy. What I couldn’t obtain in reality, cheerfulness and serenity miraculously appeared before my eyes.
The smidgeons of self-expression kept me from falling into a dismal abyss where suicidal fantasies danced threateningly in the cortex of my mind. Focused in the artistic, a form of freedom was fashioned and cherished. A pilgrimage occurred, and as I wandered this path, I came to realize, “Like life, art is an adventure.” Art rescued my soul during this period.
Today, I turn to the written word to satisfy my heart and mind. This is my new adventure, and one I hope will be as crowd pleasing as the splashes of color that took me into my safe zone, my happy place.
Who knows, I may find my way back to the canvas, but at this juncture, I rather enjoy authoring and being able to give others insights and perspectives derived from the expanse of time I’ve accumulated on this amazing planet.
I suppose I should say, “Like life, writing is an adventure. ” For, it truly is.