An Offering to Spirit

"An Offering to Spirit"
Oil Painting

I feel my creativity saved my life as I was growing up. Although I did not know it then, creative outlets allowed me access to parts of me that were sacred, special, all my own. I would play the piano, imagining myself a concert pianist one day. I would take pen and ink and do a study of a thistle in the prairie fields. These loves of mine, which I truly felt they were, served another purpose for me. I felt protected during these times, lost in my own dreams and imaginations. The world around me disappeared for a while, quietude ensued, and I was at peace.

I was a rather quiet child growing up, shy, introverted, and my verbal skills per se were not very proficient. But painting, writing and playing the piano made up for how I communicated with others. I was able to communicate with myself and that was the most valuable thing I could offer myself at that time. Sometimes I pounded on the piano and many of the songs I played were melancholy and wistful. In much the same way, my paintings began to harbor some rather dark shapes on them, some almost alien in appearance. This became evident during a painting class I took at a local junior college. The image above was a still life with fruit and bottle that we had to paint. The plaster hands sat next to the bowl of fruit. Well, my imagination took off and what transpired was anything but what sat in front of me. A surrealistic painting of sorts emerged, with hand in prayer position, offering gifts to the God spirits. My teachers encouraged me, telling me I had tapped into my own personal style. Little did they know just how therapeutic the classes were to me. I owe them a debt of gratitude for not invoking more rules and regulations of how to do art, otherwise, I'm sure it would have squelched the turbulence that rose from within myself and escaped onto canvas. I was putting all my emotions and feelings into my creativity at this point. Feeling helpless with my dad's mental illness, I lost myself in my art. This helped me cope with the reality at home. Even if what came out of me was not always pleasing, I certainly felt some sense of relief, nevertheless. School became my refuge, my oasis, where possibilities and dreams could still happen.
I don't think any of the original oil paintings I did during this time remain in my possession. When we moved out of my mother-in-law's house, quite a bit of my art was tossed in the dumpster. I remember some garbage pickers going through the junk and pulling out one of my paintings and putting it into their car. So all was not wasted, I suppose. Perhaps the painting holds a place of honor in someone's house, in my most hopeful imaginings. All I know is that some of my dark feelings are nestled in those oils, a therapeutic place I was able to unload on.