Dialogue with Picasso

        CREATIVE PROCESS — Part 4

Art for me often can be a way of journaling. I paint what I feel, can't put into words immediately, and then when reflecting on the painting afterward, I see the words for the feelings I was experiencing. Sometimes, the process unfolds in reverse—I think or write the words for the feelings, which in turn, inform the choices I make in the art-making process. This post describes one of those times during a dark and confusing time in my life.

"Dialogue with Picasso" Oil Pastel on Canson Paper © 1996 Linnie Aikens Lindsay

The following is my journal entry written in 1996 while creating a piece of art during the time I was also going through my divorce.  It began with an assignment given through a summer Discipline-Based Art Education (DBAE) course that I was taking through the Getty Art Institute in Los Angeles. It reflects my early (1996) feelings towards art and shows how the art-making process can delve deep into one’s psyche to express the true emotions one might otherwise not have the courage or words to communicate. This chronicles each step of the creation of the piece of art above, and my train of thought influencing my artistic choices throughout. (My thoughts through this are italicized in this retelling.)

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          My initial response to the assignment and prospect of creating a self-portrait in the style of Picasso was quite truthfully, utter dread.  Almost fear. Certainly, dislike. But for an occasional piece, and perhaps his blue series, I have struggled, or more honestly, not struggled to appreciate his work.

My instinctual tendency is towards peaceful, soothing, harmonious music, dance, theater and fine art, even literary works.  My soul just seems to crave these things around me, perhaps because life has been filled with so many desperate and chaotic challenges, I do not know.

I recognize this immature and uneducated response to art, and it is just that.  I'd had but a few studio classes scattered throughout the years, but no history or formal training in art appreciation before 1996, and only very limited training in the practice of artmaking.  I uncertainly acknowledge that I seem to have a natural grasp of the snatches of art education and history gathered from my mother, museum visits and artsy friends, to whom I have gravitated, but I have never portrayed myself as anything close to being an artist.  To do so would be laughable. For some reason, my work in graphic art in my mind doesn’t count. Another day I may ask myself why I feel this way, but at the moment, my work in graphic art seems more a craft, a form of technology, than an art.  Perhaps this is my old-world purest bias surfacing here, inherited from a mother who was one of the most successful contemporary metal sculptors in the world at the time, yet still didn't not consider herself an artist because she wasn’t painting.

With 20 minutes or so of art history on Picasso in class at the Getty Museum today, I almost physically felt the blinders falling off, turning to dust as ancient dried leather, as little by little I began to gain insight into his work by understanding his life.  I had a moment of repulsion at his regard for women, or the lack thereof, and my natural free-enterprise tendency to boycott someone who doesn’t treat others with respect, but there were just too many incredible contributions to art to close him out.  I found myself coming to appreciate his work, almost like it, despite my misgivings.

And yet still, the prospect of doing a self-portrait in Picasso’s style was daunting.  I sat and stared at my paper while others in class rushed to their task enthusiastically. They expressed joy and even feelings of freedom in the experience.  All I felt was immobilized by fear, by rules, by expectations, the very things freeing everyone else, it seemed.  Dragging their leaden feet through my mind were these thoughts…

You see, so what if everyone has been telling you what a good representation your pencil portrait was—you’re too tied to traditional rendering.

“Self-Portrait: Mother and Daughter” Graphite on Paper 9” X 12” © 1996 Linnie Aikens

Representational work is being poo-pood here by some of the mentors, and you can’t do anything but that.  You are a phony, a fraud.  That was just a false high.  So, what if it was the best representational portrait you'd ever done, NOW see if you can really do art!

I continued to sit, paralyzed with self-ridicule.

I inhaled. Gathered my courage. Then I embarked upon the most fantastic art journey of my life to that point, one I had an instinct would somehow change my life.

Tentatively I began tracing my profile with a black oil pastel…to be doing something at least, with the faint recollection of my belief that one must at least start in order to actually get anywhere.

The first thought that struck my mind out of the blue—almost like a non-sequitur—was Ugh, I hate that my bra is so uncomfortable and always makes me feel as though my breasts are wedged up under my chin like great giant sandbags shoring up my head.  I guffawed inside for a moment at the ridiculous picture that created in my mind then dragged myself back to the task at hand.  On second thought, why not add that feeling to my art?!  Yeah, right.   I rolled my eyes at myself and shook my head. Coward.

I drew imaginary lines across my profile as per the assignment, then the dam suddenly broke forth.  The following is a chronology of the bits of phrases and impressions, or just thoughts, that entered my head as I worked.  Each one, in turn, had a subsequent impact on my painting and influenced my choices in my artwork.

To be a mom, you’ve got to have eyes in the back of your head.

I am always on a soapbox for academic excellence, or a goal of just plain excellence. It feels like a beacon to me.

The sun this summer has really turned my hair red.  This is the first summer since I got married that I spent swimming and having fun in the sun.  I always used to do that.  Why did I stop?

The emotional abuse and strain of my marriage has left me a shell of the girl I once was.  How did I let that happen to me? How did I become so weak, and now hollow? How do I get her back? Or better yet, how do I get a better, stronger version of her back in a wizened woman?  Interesting…I see the faint outline of a wizened woman emerging from my realistic portrait. That feels hopeful!  A light of clarity.

What have I taught my daughter by allowing this?  What can I teach my daughter in the future to avoid this kind of pain and heartache?

Maybe I should include the breasts shoring up the head!  Why not?

I can’t believe I’m drawing my breasts on paper for all to see!  I have really lost it now!

I wonder what people will think? Will it embarrass them so they can’t connect with the art? Should I take them off? Why do I care what anyone else thinks anyway? Accept me for all of me.  You too, Linnie!

No! Look at the roundness.  If any one thing describes me physically, it is round!

You know, it’s perfect! I AM round... and feminine and motherly, loving and nurturing.

Thoughts and impressions continued to assail me as I worked. One line or color prompting a new thought, reflection and line or color.

The front eye looks hopeful, open, intelligent, enlightened.

The back eye looks hard, scared, oppressed, defeated,  and bleak.

Different sides of me? An essence? What about an eye to the heart?  Introvert.  Philosopher.

A bruised and battered heart, yet faintly glowing embers of promise.

Continue those swirling, snaky, insidious hair forms around the painting.  Such is the path of negativity.  But also, positivity.  You decide, Linnie.

My gosh! It looks like another figure.  That is unexpected. Middle face, hints of beauty, green with envy, unfair to feel judged for who I am.  Still I am devastated that he didn’t want me anymore because I don’t look good to him and am not social enough for his important role and social standing in the community.  How unfair that women are judged as worthy, or not, over weight and looks. How unfair that I married a man who was embarrassed by breasts.

Voluptuousness. A sign of femininity, the haven of a young child, nurturing, a family’s milk.

Oh my gosh, I LOVE this painting!

Am I dawning upon a love for myself again?

My heart was racing.  I worked in a frenzy, unable to pause.  Unable to answer another’s query.  I was obsessed in my work, unaware of all else going on around me- that the room was full of other students painting and talking.  I was lost in my own journey.

It feels so good, and yet, it feels so painful.

Look at the deadness on the back face. That is how my life felt.

 Moments…glimpses of who I once was still looking up, wanting more, wanting to be more.

 He wanted me to be more too…other things though.  Things foreign and ill-fitting to me.

 Each time I started to lift out, his ridicule and black hand of criticism lowered like a great boom, locking me in.  Framing me in.

 Why can’t I stop replaying his words over and over? You’re wrong! You don’t really feel that.  You never said that. You are crazy.  You’ve always had mental problems!  I did? When?  Speechlessness.  Despair.  I’m so alone.  He’s right.  I must be crazy.

 I feel as if I am drowning in the shame, and somehow the pain is welcome.  At least I am feeling something now…anything but that dead, white corpse of withdrawal.

 By day, walk on eggshells. Try to please. Hope, with childlike anticipation for a tiny scrap of acknowledgement, affection…love.

 In the night time, a silent scream into the darkness.

 Every night, beyond tears.  Drowning in the desert when I live in a paradise by the sea.

Somewhere in the middle there, class ended and everyone was standing around waiting for me, oblivious to the foundation-rocking-journey to which I was tethered.  I say that satirically, even so realizing that I am not totally willing to give myself grace and acceptance.  All I could think is that I MUST finish! The paper was covered but my heart and eye told me it wasn’t done.  I made my apologies and rushed out in an inward frenzy, bent on racing to the art store for some oil pastels, which I didn’t have since today was my first attempt at using them. The work doesn’t need to be completed until Monday, but I can’t rest until it is done.  I felt consumed.  The bare moment I gave to the ridiculousness of my behavior was immediately discarded in my obsession.

I was frantic when the first two stores didn’t have any in stock, then I finally found them at the last art store in town.  Home. Feed my daughter.  Snuggle. Say prayers. Kiss her good-night.  Dash to my painting.

Without another moment lost, the furious pace of my thoughts continued from where they’d previously left off.  The painting developed with the unfolding and ripening of those thoughts.  I began to see new things as I worked, which then triggered more thoughts, and in turn, decisions on line, color, contrast…  until I was done. A realization unbidden, uncalculated, unanalyzed.  I just knew it was done.   And then…

In the wee hours of the morning, la madrugada, exhausted, but the adrenalin still coursing through my body, making sleep impossible, I turned off the light and lit the candle to write in my journal.

"Dialogue with Picasso" as seen by candlelight Oil Pastel © Linnie Aikens

I glanced at the painting tacked to my wall, where I had been working. I gasped, sucking in my breath.  There, in the darkened room, the whites of the painting glowed to define a large woman’s face screaming.

I was stunned, unable to form thought.

Gradually, thought returned. 

How did that happen?  Was it coincidence?  Did I subconsciously plan it or create it?  Was is serendipity? Was it just a lucky break?  Was it supernatural?  Was it divine?

I sank back down into a sitting position on the floor with my journal. There was an element of Twilight Zone to the moment.  I felt utterly drained, wrung out and yet strangely rejuvenated.

Even today, I marvel at the process of art-making and the element of art-therapy this project reveals. While the artwork itself may be no masterpiece, the masterpiece to me is how the process unfolded, the discovery and lessons it brought. There have been other times in life when I have approached a project this way, employing BOTH art and journaling through it to discover AHAs!

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Note: All artwork, stories and observations posted within should be credited to the author, Linnie Aikens Lindsay (unless cited in the post). Permission is required for any use of my words or artwork. Taken from my work, "My Life As Wallpaper Art".