What can we learn about ourselves when we create an object? Do we express our enduring character in the things we make, or simply what we're feeling at the time? And can the making help us reflect on who we are and have been?
Our next 'Thing Person', Michelle, tackles this tricky terrain, talking about her 'one little unassuming painting'. Michelle's blog Living with Bob (Dysautonomia) is filled with black humour, and occasional silliness, about life with a chronic illness. As she puts it: 'I can't relate to my illness any other way, so there is no touchy feely, inspirational message or epiphanies.'
Can you describe this, your first painting?
My first painting was inspired by the representation of nature in Asian artwork and the Victorian interpretation of Asian styles. I've been attracted to the style since I was a child, with my love furthered by travels through Asia in my 20s and early 30s. There is a simple joy and appreciation for the natural world that appeals to me. Whilst I chose to use birds and butterflies, I decided to move away from natural hues to simply use the colours that felt 'right' to me at the time. Being ill I think many expected that I would paint something filled with anguish and despair but I simply couldn't. I wanted something that was joyous. Something that was the opposite of my reality, something that spat in the eye of illness.
Do you know where you first 'met' this style of asian artwork/Victorian interpretation of it?
As a child I spent many an hour watching classic movies and documentaries, or with my nose in a book. I was always drawn to the rich eclectic look, where traditional motifs were merged with the exotic, and every piece held a story. It was so far removed from the farm house with bland white walls and functional brown furniture that I grew up with. I was a bit of an odd child, as my vision of my future always included a dark wood paneled library, with shelf upon shelf of books, rich tapestries, tiffany lead light lamps and bric a brac I had collected from around the world. I have always loved the Asian notion that the most mundane object can be a thing of beauty. For example, I have a conical straw hat from Vietnam which looks very simple and practical but when you turn it upside down there are richly coloured pictures of beautiful women from the 50's stitched inside and the chin strap is a piece of deep purple velvet. All completely unnecessary in the functional sense yet completely essential to the soul. For me there is nothing like losing yourself in the middle of a remote village market surrounded by clashing colours, patterns and sound which miraculously balance each other.
You said that the bright colours felt 'right' when you were painting. Are bright colours things you're drawn to for a long time? I note the red wall in the background of the painting. In using them, were you expressing an enduring aspect of your self - your personal idiom - rather than simply expressing the despair of illness?
There's something essentially comforting in deep rich colours, they have 'life'. Be it the deep emerald of the tree ferns outside my window, the purple of the statice flowers in a vase on my fireplace, or the deep red of my loungeroom walls, I've always been drawn to the richer tones. Combine that with pattern and I've found my little bit of bliss. There is a tactile nature to deep colour, a warmth that envelopes you and invites interaction, whilst many neutrals and pastels can feel 'remote', especially when used without contrast. Being ill is akin to all the colour leeching out of your being. You feel like a shadow of your former self, a walking outline with no substance. Sometimes you have to artificially inject colour to feel alive again.
When did you create this painting? How important was making this it at the time?
I painted this in June 09. It was the first painting I had done since I was in my late teens and early 20s. Life, marriage, children, and work meant things like painting or writing went on the back burner. At the time I decided to pick up painting again I had been seriously ill for about 2 1/2 to 3 years. My illness had impacted upon my life dramatically. I was forced to leave work, and became essentially home bound. I could no longer drive for more than about 10mins, needed others to accompany me for simple tasks like grocery shopping, and was unable to be the mum or wife I wanted to be. Emotionally it was overwhelming and crushing. I decided at that point I couldn't let dysautonomia rule me any longer and needed to take back my life, whatever that may be. I have no idea how I came to that point, but I simply knew I needed to reclaim me. I was going through the cupboards downstairs and found my old paints and knew I had to try. It took me about a month to complete. My illness means that my body has trouble being upright, so sitting for long periods is very difficult. Additionally, poor blood flow means my muscles spasm and send paint brushes flying. Not particularly conducive to painting, but I did it. The sense of accomplishment when I finished was overwhelming. When you are having trouble walking from the bed to the bathroom, it's hard to believe that you can accomplish anything anymore. I knew it was no masterpiece, but it simply didn't matter. I had finished something, despite my body's protestations. Sometimes you just have to concentrate on winning the battles, when the reality is that you will never win the war.
Is it still significant to you now?
For me it continues to represent that mental and emotional turning point. I spent my working life helping those who had suffered brain injury and illness and their families come to terms with the social, physical and psychological changes that occur. I knew the theory. I was good at my job, but I was simply unable to apply it to myself. I was unable to resolve the conflicts associated with going from professional to patient. I still struggle with that, but I am now in a place where I can laugh at the absurdity of my life. All of that is wrapped up in that one little unassuming painting. I have it hung in our lounge room in pride of place, and feel happy every time I look at it.
(Photo and text: Michelle)
Our next 'Thing Person', Michelle, tackles this tricky terrain, talking about her 'one little unassuming painting'. Michelle's blog Living with Bob (Dysautonomia) is filled with black humour, and occasional silliness, about life with a chronic illness. As she puts it: 'I can't relate to my illness any other way, so there is no touchy feely, inspirational message or epiphanies.'
Can you describe this, your first painting?
My first painting was inspired by the representation of nature in Asian artwork and the Victorian interpretation of Asian styles. I've been attracted to the style since I was a child, with my love furthered by travels through Asia in my 20s and early 30s. There is a simple joy and appreciation for the natural world that appeals to me. Whilst I chose to use birds and butterflies, I decided to move away from natural hues to simply use the colours that felt 'right' to me at the time. Being ill I think many expected that I would paint something filled with anguish and despair but I simply couldn't. I wanted something that was joyous. Something that was the opposite of my reality, something that spat in the eye of illness.
Do you know where you first 'met' this style of asian artwork/Victorian interpretation of it?
As a child I spent many an hour watching classic movies and documentaries, or with my nose in a book. I was always drawn to the rich eclectic look, where traditional motifs were merged with the exotic, and every piece held a story. It was so far removed from the farm house with bland white walls and functional brown furniture that I grew up with. I was a bit of an odd child, as my vision of my future always included a dark wood paneled library, with shelf upon shelf of books, rich tapestries, tiffany lead light lamps and bric a brac I had collected from around the world. I have always loved the Asian notion that the most mundane object can be a thing of beauty. For example, I have a conical straw hat from Vietnam which looks very simple and practical but when you turn it upside down there are richly coloured pictures of beautiful women from the 50's stitched inside and the chin strap is a piece of deep purple velvet. All completely unnecessary in the functional sense yet completely essential to the soul. For me there is nothing like losing yourself in the middle of a remote village market surrounded by clashing colours, patterns and sound which miraculously balance each other.
You said that the bright colours felt 'right' when you were painting. Are bright colours things you're drawn to for a long time? I note the red wall in the background of the painting. In using them, were you expressing an enduring aspect of your self - your personal idiom - rather than simply expressing the despair of illness?
There's something essentially comforting in deep rich colours, they have 'life'. Be it the deep emerald of the tree ferns outside my window, the purple of the statice flowers in a vase on my fireplace, or the deep red of my loungeroom walls, I've always been drawn to the richer tones. Combine that with pattern and I've found my little bit of bliss. There is a tactile nature to deep colour, a warmth that envelopes you and invites interaction, whilst many neutrals and pastels can feel 'remote', especially when used without contrast. Being ill is akin to all the colour leeching out of your being. You feel like a shadow of your former self, a walking outline with no substance. Sometimes you have to artificially inject colour to feel alive again.
When did you create this painting? How important was making this it at the time?
I painted this in June 09. It was the first painting I had done since I was in my late teens and early 20s. Life, marriage, children, and work meant things like painting or writing went on the back burner. At the time I decided to pick up painting again I had been seriously ill for about 2 1/2 to 3 years. My illness had impacted upon my life dramatically. I was forced to leave work, and became essentially home bound. I could no longer drive for more than about 10mins, needed others to accompany me for simple tasks like grocery shopping, and was unable to be the mum or wife I wanted to be. Emotionally it was overwhelming and crushing. I decided at that point I couldn't let dysautonomia rule me any longer and needed to take back my life, whatever that may be. I have no idea how I came to that point, but I simply knew I needed to reclaim me. I was going through the cupboards downstairs and found my old paints and knew I had to try. It took me about a month to complete. My illness means that my body has trouble being upright, so sitting for long periods is very difficult. Additionally, poor blood flow means my muscles spasm and send paint brushes flying. Not particularly conducive to painting, but I did it. The sense of accomplishment when I finished was overwhelming. When you are having trouble walking from the bed to the bathroom, it's hard to believe that you can accomplish anything anymore. I knew it was no masterpiece, but it simply didn't matter. I had finished something, despite my body's protestations. Sometimes you just have to concentrate on winning the battles, when the reality is that you will never win the war.
Is it still significant to you now?
For me it continues to represent that mental and emotional turning point. I spent my working life helping those who had suffered brain injury and illness and their families come to terms with the social, physical and psychological changes that occur. I knew the theory. I was good at my job, but I was simply unable to apply it to myself. I was unable to resolve the conflicts associated with going from professional to patient. I still struggle with that, but I am now in a place where I can laugh at the absurdity of my life. All of that is wrapped up in that one little unassuming painting. I have it hung in our lounge room in pride of place, and feel happy every time I look at it.
(Photo and text: Michelle)
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