Lately I've been doing a lot of tiny paintings of birds. I was at the art supply store last month buying glue for my cursed trauma collages when I saw a very small pad of watercolor paper, two inches by three inches. Something about this was so delightful to me that I had to grab it — I can't resist a tiny surface. Then I realized that I didn't have any paintbrushes at home, so I grabbed one that looked nice enough on the table next to the checkout. The nice-enough-looking paintbrush, which had no price tag on it, turned out to cost $80 (and that was on sale!!!). But by the time this information was revealed to me, the cashier had already rung up all my other stuff, and there was a big line behind me, and I will do almost anything to avoid low-stakes interpersonal conflict. So as I cringed at the beeping of the transaction going through, I justified the purchase to myself: I will use this paintbrush every day, or at least something that feels like every day.
I am not very good at painting, which makes sense, because I can count on one hand the number of times I painted anything over the last 13 years. Before that I painted constantly. Once, as a child, I was gifted a book of bird paintings by bird painter Robert Bateman. Astonished by the existence of “bird painter” as a hypothetical career, I decided I was going to commit to a life of painting birds. I painted several birds. Then I got bored and started painting other things: landscapes, then more abstract landscapes, then pure abstractions. I saved up money to go to Michaels and buy small cheap canvases or individual tubes of acrylic paint (in primary colors, of course, so that I didn't have to buy more). Sometimes my dad's friend who disappeared from our lives under fraught circumstances that to this day remain mysterious to me would buy me art supplies as well. He disappeared around when I decided I was the worst artist in the world and stopped painting, which was also around when the bad things really started happening. It's kind of funny how I never put the pieces together before this year — how much the seemingly unprompted and inexplicable preteen evaporation of my interests, hobbies, and will to live was, in fact, obviously explicable.
In fairness to my ability to create a coherent narrative of my life, it’s only in the last year that I’ve found myself in circumstances that do not involve extreme quantities stress being pumped straight into my body literally every day. During my times of suffering, I really struggled to imagine a non-suffering future version of myself. The issue was that I couldn’t imagine a non-suffering version of myself. In order for this person to escape the suffering, I figured they would have to no longer be me. They would have to be someone unrecognizable.
What I’ve found instead is that the non-suffering version of myself is someone in shocking continuity with who I was as kid. Writing and memorizing facts and singing little songs throughout the day. Talking to plants and rocks and animals. Laughing very, very loudly. Reading, biking by the ocean. Planning adventures — that’s the kind of thing you can do when you have a future.
I realized a few weeks ago that I am currently having the best time being alive that I've ever had. This realization kind of stressed me out — there’s a well-worn pathway in my brain that leads to a house full of the worst things imaginable, and it’s hard not to worry that there’s nowhere to go but down. But I’m not that stressed about it. It’s hard to feel stressed when I know that most of the things I’m afraid will happen to me already happened, and I ended up here anyway: painting all these fucking birds. They aren’t very good. I’m having a good time anyway.
I physically cringed when I read about the $80 (EIGHTY DOLLARS) paintbrush. :|
It really warms my heart to know you're doing well. The paintings are gorgeous.