This text describes the process behind the artwork in the This is Eight Gallery.
Eight Speaks. I draw. This is how the work comes into the world.
Sometimes in whispers, sometimes in a yell,
Eight’s ready to talk; she’s ready to tell
her expressions of feelings, details, or smells.
Eight’s no longer afraid to come out of her shell.
The cat gave her back her tongue
and it’s super, super sharp.
What she’s saying is hard,
but, I’m backing her up.
Her thoughts are dicing and slicing into shreds
all the demons that have lived inside my head.
She’s cutting up the memories
into pieces that make sense.
She’s telling me as she goes:
what I wish hadn’t happened
and forgot
but already know.
Let’s do this….You talk and I’ll draw.
No edits, no redos, just stream-of-consciousness style.
Sometimes it will be magnificent, sometimes raw.
Sometimes super simple and other times a wreck.
Sometimes burned and blackened.
Sometimes a pitiful mess.
Sometimes a dragon, a phoenix, rising up from the ash…
Sometimes only to us, it’ll make sense.
And, I’m okay with that.
Because, it’s what happened.
Bits and pieces taken over time…..
pulled and forced out and apart
yanked out and thrust back in again…
forgotten, deeply, deeply hidden.
Jagged pieces that still don’t quite fit that nicely
that don’t make the prettiest picture…
but are still ultra pricey…
They’re at least back together
because I finally remember.
I can see the patchy needlework
and the nearly dead parts inside…
still glowing, still glistening, still a little bit alive.
Electric. Panic. Static. Frenetic.
Yeah, You and I.
Me and you.
We’re Trauma Frankenstein.
Eight, you’re with me, through and through.
Eight, your faces, I can’t erase.
They’ve slowly unraveled
from inside my head
in a yarn full
of sadness, madness, and dread.
But now,
We’ve made a sweater out of our beautiful sorrow
which we’ll wear wherever we go.
It’s our wish for a happier tomorrow.
Black for the past and white for the future.
Black, the prison bars of my childhood…
White, the promise of a freedom that I’ll nurture.
Eight. Rollerskates and swimming pools.
The year someone broke the biggest rule.
Eight. Barbies, bowling, and books.
Secret touches, feeling dirty, dirty looks.
Eight, crayons and crying.
“Safe” people lying
Childhood dying.
Eight, Snoopy Snowcone machines and swings.
Pretty little kids made into ugly things.
Eight, puppies born in basements,
cameras rolling and actors in their placements.
Eight, curse words and blue birds,
dance parties and eating Smarties,
skinny-dipping, records skipping,
kids muffled and never heard.
Nobody better say one word.
Eight. The age I am forever…
the one I couldn’t discuss…
the one filled with disgust….
and shame….
and blame….
Our parts bang around ’til I’m insane.
But I’m not.
We’re not.
We’re fragmented, but not broken.
We’re stitched up, but still awoken.
Hands are no longer on my throat, choking—
I’m my own life-saver, my own lifeboat.
No more threats of death to keep things quiet,
We’re screaming, we’re shouting, no more shrinking violets.
We’re a bold red tulip, quiet in the snow
that finally bursts out its petals to show.
Eight, my pretty flower girl,
with braids and sometimes a curl.
I’m her voice, forever.
Our partnership, we must never sever.
Trauma Frankenstein,
ripped up, tripped up, but no longer zipped up,
still kicking, spitting fire, and alive.
We’re in this together.
in any kind of weather…
Not just foul or fair friend,
but soul mates ‘til the end.
This is Eight. These are Eight’s Faces.
She hides in all my spaces.
And no one can erase us.