In between the canvas and paper pieces, I stroke the brush whose tip is soaked with glue. Pushing it against the paper, I force weighted strokes to flatten the pulpy bits of color to their new foundation – the one I build in the House of Art.
Dipping the brush’s tip into the plastic tub, it emerges with the white, sticky goo which is my paint, my adhesive medium which connects me to my soul. Where all the pieces fell apart and shattered with the pristine glass walls of our home cracked and caved, I now try to put them back together again. With glue. It clears as it dries, erasing the haze which blurs my vision of the past, present, or future. And when it clears, I see the creation I couldn’t understand or fathom until everything was laid in its rightful place.
There it is. The purpose. The reasons for the frazzled madness, the racing mind, and frustrated sighs while I wonder where all this is going, why this is happening. As I stumble along, wishing for the easier path, I fail to see the steps leading me toward the bigger picture, the one in which I realize and understand the beauty of a struggle after it has been overcome.
It is the glue which keeps me going, connecting me to the strands of thought and feeling aimlessly wandering and floating through the labyrinth of an overactive mind, and underwhelmed life, a want for something more.
The glue builds my unconscious vision. Attaches me to the present, focusing on the careful, ill-reasoned placement where lines and circles and waves intersect and divide, combine and unite. Nothing makes sense until the end. Then the spontaneous actions seem worth it.
After the labor, the hypnotic state where I simply exist in the moments as they occur, a part of me is pieced whole again. While I stand at a distance, gazing at the work that has unfolded into a physical something, and peeling the dried glue from my fingers and nails like a lizard shedding its skin, I am reborn.
– Written by Miss A on September 4, 2011