Most paintings are begging to be made. You wind up hearing the call just when you've given up. You find yourself both hopeful and frustrated gathering supplies and making decisions you do not want to make. You learn that most of the time, painting is not painting at all but preparing and repairing. The painting already exists because we see it beforehand! What lies beneath is screaming to be heard, and the act of painting is now erasing. We erase the veil, mask, or curtain that is the paper. The decisions you made are thrown out on account of what is revealed, but you keep going, and soon enough, the painting has a story of its own. Am I a painter or a storyteller retelling a story to get through my own grief? Painting is painful - like, I just stopped painting a background because I knew what was coming next, a boy with dog, and all I could think is my dog is dying. A background of splatters and multicolor, decided to get me.
The piece that once made you new through facing your fear becomes a special tool to then help you through your pain. Not a single painting has been kind to me. Every single one, finished or not, has helped me heal. Every opportunity to paint is rewarding and necessary. It's not, who am I or what is within me, but what is out there that I stand up to finally face.
JOYLAH
