“You write like you just got out of prison.”
(The most interesting compliment of opening night.)
Inner drafts and outer climates.
...Food went in, art came out.
Usually austere in the face of her Saturnine humors, when she felt them creeping up she could be bitterly sarcastic, giving way to a melancholy that left her wondering if the black bile came from one’s mind, not gut.
The images in the corners of the intellect remain.
I never flinch at what is produced in the cryptic dissolve of my mind.
In isolation she met with psychosis, from time to time, which led to intense hallucinations.
Complex, intricate and intense. The deranged mind is sitting inside a howling cyclone. Turn the music up to calm thoughts and focus.
They say very articulate things, very strangely.
Apparent horror vacui. A suffocating atmosphere and clutter are shown by filling every space with drawn imagery. Yet, every sheet contained an empty hole known to her as eggs. Open for spirit’s escape. She entered into the art through the same device. Ghost signing her name with a 8H pencil. Progressing herself by transforming from a child to Knight to Emperor and finally to Saint.
Life planned as escape. I can’t die yet, I haven’t painted my Danaë.
She had been busy for years backing into a corner nest. Hatching escape plans and not getting caught, yet. Nor freed.
The stress of not moving only exaggerated her minds eye flying out over the fabric of the earth.
Purely decorative images held deep iconoclastic and idiosyncratic meaning.
Of course she was usually the only one looking.
Go ahead, ignore me...
From THE PAPER DOLL STORIES: life profiles & confessions.