An Affair With Art

Today my father posted a link to a video about Vivian Maier. Up until today, I'd never actually heard about her. Turns out, she's a fabulous street photographer who spent the majority of her life documenting the world around her. As I watched the video, I was amazed by this unique woman who to this day has remained a virtual mystery. This artist captured thousands of moments through her camera lens and yet she died without anyone knowing about them. The negatives were only discovered when a storage locker was being auctioned off when she couldn't keep up the payments on it.

Determined to find out more, I turned to the internet. Really, the whole scenario fascinated, not just because this woman kept her passion a secret, but because her creative eye was so clearly a part of who she was and so many people who shared a piece of her life insist they didn't have any idea how extensive her catalogue had grown. Sure, they saw her with a camera, but they didn't see how important it was. It doesn't make sense. I mean, she had a hundred thousand negatives. Who doesn't notice that?

Anyhow, both the article and video detailed how solitary Vivian Maier was, how she had these introverted tendencies, and this desire to be anonymous. On the other hand, she was also a liberal woman who freely gave her opinion to anyone willing to listen. These two sides of her personality only intrigues me more. As I read the article and watched the short film, I became bothered by how people viewed her. This woman who amazed and captivated me, who I saw as a creative genius and someone to admire, was coming off very different to others.

They called her pitiful. Lonely. Sad. Alone. They talked about how terrible it was that she kept this hobby to herself. How she hid who she was. One girl talked about how heartbreaking it was that she could capture these relationships with her camera but never was able to have an intimate relationship of her own. No children. No husband. No family. No close friends. What a tragedy her life was!

Except, this wasn't how I saw it. Having these people talk about how unfulfilled Miss Maier must have been aggravated me. They clearly missed the most beautiful relationship she had.

We glorify human affection and grow up thinking getting married and having kids are the most important goals a person can have. We are supposed to spend time with our friends and family, to miss them when they are not around, and to covet hand holding and soft kisses. The problem with this is: we are all different. Some of us don't thrive on human interaction. Some of us are quite happy alone. Some of us seek peace of mind through other channels.

To me, Vivian did have an intimate relationship ... with her camera. A love affair with her art. This was her passion, her pleasure, something she thrived on doing. By not sharing these pictures with the world, she is telling us she loved her art, adored seeing the world through her viewfinder, and searching for the perfect frame. She needed nothing in return and was content to walk the streets and witness what other people passed by, these things people were too busy to notice. Vivian Maier captured tender human emotions and documented history, dictating which moments were to be immortalized through the lens of her camera. It saddens me that people have so grossly misunderstood her.

More than her camera and her art, Vivian had a relationship with herself. It baffles me that these people don't see how gorgeous and unique this woman was. She is not defined by a husband or children, friends or family. She is defined by her passion and the most important relationship in her life - her art.

I highly encourage you to check her out. She's beautiful.

Emotional Wardrobe

This evening let us gather around the (virtual) fire and discuss emotional baggage. This two worded expression just happens to irk the crap out of me. Not  just because of the insensitive way it is used but because people are ashamed by it. This phrase gets tossed around in such a negative way, as if the people hurling it at others don't have any issues of their own, as if they themselves have no residual emotions left behind from their childhood or the traumatic episode we call our teenage years, as if they have escaped relationships without acquiring any issues or sentimental scars.

People talk about emotional baggage as if it is a hindrance, an embarrassment, something to be ashamed of. Everyone talks about how we have to let go and overcome the past or else we will be held back by it. This is a preposterous notion to me. Take it from me, no matter how well you let go of something, it always comes back to you. Usually when you least expect it, like at work when you're cleaning the lint out of the dryer trap. Nothing is gone forever. Not even when you spend a sexless year working through your issues. The feelings and memories are always under the surface, just existing there.

And it makes me think, is not our emotional baggage something we should be proud of? To say, "This is what I've been through, and I'm still here, surviving. Look at all I have overcome. It's all packed into these metaphorical bags."

Like the good times in our lives, we carry the bad as well, from this relationship to the next, from one part of our lives to another. Why should we let either of them go? These are our memories, our experiences, the things that have moulded and shaped us, turned us into the creatures we are. We act as if the sad times, the hurtful moments are a pain to keep with us, but I cherish them just the same as the lovely ones. I have learned from them. Grown from them. And I keep them with me, not because I can't let them go, but because they aren't holding me back. They are a part of me.

Anyone who whispers the term 'emotional baggage' behind their hand as if it is a dirty thing is misunderstanding what exactly comprises the baggage. Some people don't understand what it means to be proud of the struggles you've been through. Once you embrace the baggage it can become your shield. It can protect you from future hurts. And it will teach you to wear your scars like armour. To hold your head up high and understand that where you came from and what you've gone through doesn't have to dictate where you are going or who you will become.

We call it baggage because it supposedly weighs us down, but the past doesn't have to be so heavy. Instead of lugging it around, why don't we unpack it instead? We can fill up our hearts with it and, when need be, we can open the doors to the emotional wardrobe and pull out a moment to examine, to remember what we leaned from it, to reflect on the life we have lived, then hang it back up. We can close the door and go about our lives, no longer pulling the baggage behind us, but carrying it inside us, where it can be reflected on as a lesson, instead of dragged around like dead weight we want to cut away.  

I firmly believe you can't let your past dictate your future, but I also don't think you can move forward without confronting your past. Packing your bad memories up and trying to hide them will only cause you to stumble. It's hard dragging something so cumbersome behind you, it's a strain on the heart and the head, not to mention the legs. Eventually, we have to realize we are who we are because of what we have been through. To deny the past, to try to forget it, or ignore it will only cause it to be harder to deal with. Maybe it's time to unpack those bags and put those experiences away in the emotional wardrobe, where they can change from a burden to a blessing. 

Stripped Bare

Sometimes, I stand naked in front of the mirror and look at myself. Into myself. I strip myself bare and look at my bones. My soul. The key components of who I am as a person. I do this because it's a reminder. Not that my thighs are jiggly and my hair is pretty much always unkempt, but that I am human. That I am on a journey. That these moments are my life and I should be participating in the fullest degree. These seconds, minutes, hours, days, months and years, cannot just slip by.

Every moment is precious. Every day I wake up a gift. Each moon rise noteworthy. The sunrises important.

It's easy to get sidetracked. To get swallowed by emotions and worries, strife, grief and uncertainty. The longer I stare at my bared body and soul, the more I see how convoluted existing can seem. But seem is an impression, not necessarily truth, and if you dim the lights and change the angle, everything shifts. Morphs. Looks different.

There is so much noise these days. So many distractions. We are carrying computers on us everywhere we go and this new fangled technology hinders us. Even when we are with our family and friends, we aren't with our family and friends. We are with our family and friends, and the hundred or so friends we have on our Facebook, Instagram, Twitter or whatever social media is our current vice. The noise gets to me. It grinds me down. Out in the world, there are radios and cars, people, phones, televisions everywhere. It's why I moved away from the city. Why I am in fact living in a village. But I love it here.

Because it is easier for me to strip myself bare. Because when I leave my house there are mountains all around me. Because the air smells of smoke and forest. Because the streets are quite. Because the stars can be seen when I look up at the night sky.

Still, even with all this wonderment around me, I get distracted. I forget. And I get downtrodden, especially in highly emotional times. I get weary. Tried. Broken. I forget how blessed I am. How happy I can be. And how healing the earth is.

So, I strip myself bare. And stand in front of the mirror and look. Not at how my belly may just be a bit bigger than it was last year, but at my soul. I reconnect with the girl I am, and the girl I want to be. The one who wants flowers in her hair and no shoes on her feet. It only takes a moment to reconnect with myself, but it's so important. Because when I lose sight of who I am, it gets hard. This whole thing is all about ebb and flow, I wonder why that always slips my mind.

The truth is I don't want my journey to be a burden. I want it to be an adventure.

It's nice to check in and see I am still here.

Stop Making Me Uncomfotable

Here's a funny little truth about me, emotional scenes in television shows and movies make me uncomfortable. Not 'oh, this is so bang on I'm squeamish about the truth ringing forth from the scene' and not even 'wow, this is so glaringly terrible and unrealistic I can't even look at the screen'. It's more of an 'I hate emotions' type of feeling. And I'm not even an emotionless drone sent here to crush feelings with my inhumanly strong hands. In reality, I have a vast array of emotions bubbling under this calm, put-together exterior. Once upon a time, I was all about rage, these days I keep company with love and sadness.

This whole crazy world can induce such melancholic feelings if you're paying attention.

But this post isn't about the good or bad in the world, the sunshine and storm clouds, it's about being uncomfortable with emotional outbursts on the big screen. You see, last weekend, we watched the latest Walking Dead episode, the one where Darryl Dixon cries over nothing, and it left me writhing in agony. Before I go any further, let me share with you these three universal Tee truths:

1. I love Norman Reedus and think he is a rather brilliant actor
2. Darryl Dixon is my most favourite character on Walking Dead
3. Emotions make me uncomfortable

Alright, now the Dixon Darlings, what I imagine the Mr. Reedus fan clubbers call themselves, won't tear my throat out when I say I could have done without that episode. Maybe it's because I love a man of mystery and didn't need to know anything more than the rough, badass exterior I'd grown to love. Or maybe it was because watching Darryl break apart, shed that hard as rock exterior, and let loose the raw man emotions he harboured only managed to leave a 'this is mighty awkward' impression on me. Oh, he's done it before, spilled those salty eye droplets, better known as tears, but at least he had a reason. His brother was a zombie and he needed to shoot him in order to stay alive. Talk about a tragic situation right there! Poor, poor Merle. But this time it was almost like Walking Dead was trying to do some character building, which I am not okay with! Just joking, I love character building, but Walking Dead doesn't do those sorts of dirty things. They prefer to keep their characters flat, except Rick, he's all kinds of colourful crazy.

Darryl Dixon's sensitive scene isn't the first flood of feelings that has put me on edge. It happens all the time.

Back in the day, my ex-used to call me cynical because every time there was a proclamation of love in a movie I'd scoff and roll my eyes. It's always the grand gestures that get me or the man breaking their strong, silent habits, all of a sudden going against every fibre of their being and getting verbose about how much they adore the woman who is ready to leave them. Yeah, because men always stand outside your doorway with cards proclaiming their love, or say things like 'you complete me'. Even now, my brow is pinched and I'm smirking wryly.

And don't get me wrong. It isn't just when men do it. You know that scene in Ten Things I Hate About You when Kat reads the poem she wrote about hating but not really hating Patrick? She's all crying and upset and I distinctly remember feeling as if I needed to escape the moment because watching it made me extremely distressed. Even worse, every single time Julia Roberts cries in every single movie. Steel Magnolias, My Best Friend's Wedding, Notting Hill, Pretty Woman, and on and on. I think it's her mouth and the watery misery welling in her Bambi eyes.

Maybe it's because I know they are acting. That it isn't real. It's all fake. And often the scenes are so contrived and ridiculous. Characters going completely against their nature to have these epic emotional episodes. Perhaps that's what makes me uncomfortable, except sometimes emotions in real life make me uncomfortable too. Though, I don't discount them, unless they are over something ridiculous, like a misplaced cellphone. I can totally sympathize with most people and truly am most empathetic for others.

I'm not even going to bother trying to figure it out. After all, it's just a funny little truth about me. Something I noticed and am sharing. I think I just have a bit of Spock in me.

Articulation

The other night I was leaving work with the Sidekick and I said, "Hey, it's still light outside."
To which he replied, "Yeah, it's getting ... light ... outside ... more."
The situation only became more amusing when he added, "Yep, if anyone ever needs anything articulated send them my way."

We shared a laugh over it.

But it's a funny thing this articulation. Not everyone is blessed with the ability to put thoughts, feelings or ideas into words. I know many people who feel the English language is daunting and discussions the bane of their existence. When confronted with a conversation, they balk, hesitate to engage, and feel put on the spot, fearful over looking stupid, unsure if their verbal weapons are lacking compared to the person they are speaking with. Personally, I think the art of conversation is not an easy thing to master. That being said, I have never spoken to anyone and come away thinking, "Jeez, that person was an idiot." Actually, that's not true, but it hasn't been because they are unable to articulate themselves or they don't have a very extensive vocabulary. No, it's usually because they are narrow-minded, sexist, racist homophobes, or belligerent butt-heads with no common sense and even less manners.

What you are saying is far more important than how you are saying. While I certainly don't feel people have to read the dictionary or thesaurus in order to convey their emotions and thoughts to others, I do feel the ability to speak coherently, organize your thoughts, and deliver them in a fluent and concise manner can only be an advantage when speaking or writing. It's is far more likely for others to understand what you are saying, where you are coming, and not misconstrue what is being said and why.

While the Sidekick and I certainly had a laugh about his statement about the days being lighter, he really is a man of few words. And though he may not be an overly communicative person, he insists that he makes count the few words he does share. Here's the thing. Mr. Sidekick is certainly capable of articulating himself, but he chooses not to. It just isn't the way he goes about doing things. One part shy, two parts stoic man-beast, and the rest laid-back-whatever-will-be-will-be, he simply has a different way of tackling life.

Some of us are internalizers. Others externalizers.

I can appreciate both sides of the spectrum, which is probably why Sidekick and I get along fairly well. I don't like talking about my feelings, but I am blessed with the ability to be able to do so if necessary. Once in awhile I do engage with others in person, but because of this little thing called blogging, I am able to write about the thoughts running rampant through my head. I have been putting words onto paper, both virtual and real, ever since I was a little girl.

In many ways, I am pleased I know how to take my unbridled thoughts and form them into sentences, paragraphs and novels. Maybe that's a gift. It's certainly something I am grateful for. Most people have a hard time summing up their feelings and conveying their thoughts to others, and even themselves. But there's an age old saying for that, isn't there?

Practice makes perfect. This applies to articulation and the art of conversation. I can't recount how many times I've seen people try to talk to others, only to clam up and scurry away, or clamp a lid down on what they think, because they don't know how to brooch the subject, and are uncertain how to make their point. If you desire the ability to be able speak to others, to tell people your thoughts, feelings, ideas and beliefs, then start practising. Engage with others in a conversation. Try writing everything down. Start a blog - it can even be anonymous. Look up synonyms. Read books. And don't be so bloody self conscious.

One day, I will be the Queen of Articulation. I shall have a sash and everything.

It doesn't matter if you excel at speaking and writing or not. The Sidekick may not be the most communicative fellow, but he can draw like a mother fucker. So, here I am able to write down the things I feel, create fluid prose, and engage in lengthy discussions over human emotions and rain dances in the nude, but I can't paint at all. Sketching shapes is a task for me. And I'm not even talking about a tetrahedron or hexagonal prism. Circles and triangles are most tricky!

There's a point here somewhere. Maybe it's that we are all different? Sure, let's go with that.

Feeling Like A Joke

I've been meaning to do this sooner, but the intersnacks have been dodgy.

The interesting thing about blogging for me is that it works as a diary, helping me sort through the mountains of ridiculous crap floating around in my head. When I don't have the option, things sort of pile up and, no matter how much I stew over it, I can't just let things go. There's this weird part of writing things down that helps me release them. Sure, I could simply sit down with a pen and paper and get to scribbling, but...

No, wait. That's exactly what I did. And to be honest, it really didn't work. You see, I've been having a terrible time sleeping, which is most likely related to the state of mind I've worked myself into. Last night, for some inexplicable reason, I thought it a good idea to scrawl down the free fall of thoughts in my head. Of course, it was three in the morning and they didn't exactly come out orderly and pretty.

Actually, they came out like some haphazard list of possible blog topics, most of which I've already touched on in previous posts and others I'm not sure if I'm strong (or stubborn) enough to write about. The most common theme throughout them is feeling lonely, and health of body and mind. To me, if you have a healthy mind, your body will follow suit, mostly because you'll be motivated to get up and out and actually do something. It's been raining here, and getting up has been a chore.

Anyway, one of the points I jotted down, the first one, has been stuck in my craw for days. It's the source of a lot of heartache. And so, I'm writing about it. Here. In hopes of being able to let it go after. The thing is, I tried confronting it before, but it doesn't seem to matter how much I deep breathe or stretch my mind and body, it's there, needling away at me. I even tried talking about it, but what good is that when you feel stupid for even bringing it up.

Here's a shocking point, it's hard for me to talk about things. Surprise. It's easy to assume I'm a great talker, because I blog and vlog, but that's simply not the case. There are only two people who I feel comfortable telling anything to. I fear anyone else will take it the wrong way, maybe personally, and then offer up advice that won't help. The thing everyone needs to learn is - advice usually isn't what the person talking wants...or needs.

Back to the point, and the issue that's helped derail me from the path I was quite content to be travelling on. I'm a joke. Maybe not to you, or anyone else, but to myself, which is the person who counts the most. Today, and for the last little while, I feel like everything I do or say is a joke. And not when I'm actually being funny, but the serious stuff. My writing. The relationships I have. What I do for others. My love for knitting. Respect for animals. Everything just feels like one big joke and I'm the punchline. And not a very good one. The kind people chuckle at uncomfortably.

It doesn't seem to matter how much effort I put out or time or love or dedication, I feel pathetic. As though I am a sad little attempt at living. Where nothing I do or say matters enough to be taken note of. It's as though I'm simply playing a role, and not doing a very good job.

To be completely up front with you, it's a craptastic way to feel. And, in the battle between common sense and unreasonable feelings, rational thinking never wins.

I've tried putting a mask on and saying, I'm fine and going about my day, but the hitch is, I'm analyzing every piece of my life and losing grasp of what it is I cherished. The longer I harbour this passenger, the more I become the fool, and the feelings of displacement grow stronger. Other not-so-awesome thoughts pop into my head at unfair times. Like feeling invisible. Unwanted. A piece of furniture that always gets in the way, takes up too much room and isn't very pretty to look at. Then, the loneliness seeps in. A silent messenger who comes in the middle of the night when I'm laying next to someone.

Then I start wondering, why I'm not getting what I want?

I know it isn't fair, to want someone else to make me feel better. To distract me. To help me through the tangled knots of my mind. To reassure me that I'm not so bad. To love me even when it's hard to love myself. To forgive my bad mood. To understand where I'm coming from. To see me for who I am, not who I want to be or think I am. To demand attention. To want to be held, kissed and hugged, simply because I'm not happy with the reflection in the mirror.

It isn't fair of me to project my own demons onto someone else.  

The hardest part is, I've been here before, and  it's frustrating because I don't know how I got here again. This girl isn't me. I'm not supposed to be resentful or bitter. This uncertainty doesn't look good on me. I thought I managed to free myself of the constraints of my past, but it's there, sneaking up when it finds a chink in my armour and delivering blow after blow. Apparently, this baggage isn't going anywhere.

I'm a child again. A sad, dysfunctional child wanting the approval and affection of the people I love. Who feels disappointed in herself for letting others down. For letting herself down. The little, ugly, chubby, messy girl with the ratty hair and ill-fitting jeans. She is at the centre of who I am. And the little bitch is strong, and demanding.

I guess this has been going on since Christmas. Ever since, I've felt as thought things have changed. Inside me and all around me. And there's truth in change. We stop doing things for reasons. I'm trying hard to work through those, but the glue and staples don't seem to be holding.

Usually, I pull away. Distance myself. Put up walls. Hide out until the storm passes, or at least ravages and ruins everything in its wake. It seems as though no matter how hard I try not to, I revert back to the girl who doesn't want to get hurt and only ends up hurting myself. The thing is, I'm trying, to talk, to explain, to have some sort of connection that feels real, but I doubt whether it's working. Maybe I'm looking for feed back. A nod. Blink of an eye. Or perhaps just a simple clearing of the throat.

Everything I've wrote on this blog in the past is truth. I know that in my heart, even if it is stubborn and angry right now. Love is the way. You have to be beautiful inside to be beautiful out. Happiness comes from within. It's the little things in life. But the funny thing is, no matter how much you know to be true, all it takes is a shift in weather to fog up your glasses and change the way you see the world.

I'm hoping for another change in weather soon, so I can go back to seeing myself and the world for what it truly is.

And now, a quote:

Perhaps I shouldn't have posted this. That's it, I'm writing about cake tomorrow.

A Good Cry

The term 'having a good cry' is confounding to me.

I mean, to put it in the simplest way possible, crying simply isn't good for me.

Okay, I understand some people cry when they are overcome with happiness, but I'm not one of those people. Even when I cry at weddings, it usually isn't because I am so thrilled for the people involved. Most likely it's because I think the person is making a huge mistake. Of course, I probably shouldn't have admitted that. I mean, now if you see me crying at your wedding you're going to think I'm not supportive, like you're making the most unwise decision of your life. Please, if you invite me to your wedding, and you see me bawling my eyes out, just assume you are the exception, not the rule.

Now that I've covered myself, let me delve a little deeper into this whole 'good cry' thing.

Crying, like from-the-gut-sobbing-can't-control-the-tears-bawling, is a very bad thing. I get that people think it is cleansing and a wonderful way to release pent up emotions. But I'd rather sweat out the toxic sadness with exercise or vent it in the form of a good string of curse words. It totally sucks to be reduced to a bag of tears and isn't in any way refreshing.

You know what's refreshing? A bubble bath or eucalyptus steam.

Not only does crying make me look like hell, but I feel like hell - but hell on a bad day, not a lukewarm afternoon when Lucifer isn't in such a damning mood.

While I am sitting here thinking about the act of being reduced to weeping mess, all that keeps playing in my head are the horrible, terrible, awful things. And yes, I did need three words to describe the same thing there. Let's look at the outcome of these so called 'good' cries. Sore Eyes. Runny Nose. Puffy Face. Snotty sleeves. Pounding temples. Feeling like an utter moron if people are around to bear witness to the spectacle, and feeling turdish if I'm alone. (Turdish is totally a new word for us all to enjoy) Let's face it, blubbering is ugly. Not even babies or supermodels can make it attractive.

Have you ever cried and there isn't a tissue around? Snot trails down your nose, mixes with the saltiness of your tears, gets in your mouth because crying close mouthed is next to impossible. So, you wipe it on your sleeve, trying desperately to pretend you have everything in control while silently thinking how disgusting it is that your nose is dripping and you are powerless to stop the hideous scene. All you can do is roll with it and try to act like it isn't happening. Yeah. We've all been there.

And apparently women are known for crying. We are identified as criers. Some people even say we can't even control it. Our hormones are to blame. Damn those hormones!

The thing is, I don't cry all that much. Not at cute commercials, or sad movies. I don't spend a lot of time snivelling over burnt toast, my job (or ex-job), or weight gain. My period rarely has me in tears. That said, I know a lot of ladies who do participate in sob-fests fairly often and, to tell you the truth, I admire them. I admire anyone who can own their feelings like that and shove them out there for all to witness.

The whole thing makes me feel far too vulnerable. I mean, it does happen. But since I dislike it so much, when I finally cave into the melancholy monster it is business. And it is messy.

With all this said, I almost cried on the way home from my friends' house last night. It's been hanging out for awhile. I felt it coming, the shudder in my chest, the tension pull behind my eyes, the pain down my throat. But I managed to suppress it. Detour around it for a couple more...hours? Days? Weeks? Who knows?

I mean, it's there, lurking about, waiting patiently for me to let it out. And it's going to happen. I mean, it's all part of human nature and not being an emotionless psychopath. But rest assured, it isn't going to be a 'good cry'. I won't walk away from it feeling rejuvenated and sighing like I've just had a demon exorcised out of me. No, I'll be annoyed and exhausted. I'll want to sleep.

There is, of course, an exception. And that's laughing until you cry. That's just awesome.