Out of the Gutter Art

Category: Creativity and my Bipolar Brain

  • Peeping Out

    Peeping Out

    Squinting. Blink, blink…blink, blink…

    The coast seems clear, dare I step out-into the light? I think I must, after my last cryptic and elusive post. Nothing bad happened, artistically. I was uplifted, encouraged, validated. People needed to hear from me, needed to hear how a girl with so many odds stacked against her from the “git go”, plus the things I had piled on myself-how I had teetered at the edge of the abyss…and made it back to tell the tale.

    Why? Why? Why? ©STMartin “Growth” detail

    Many are grieving themselves, their pain written in their beautiful eyes, on expertly made up, flawless faces. They searched mine, looking for an answer- “Why.” Why? Why? Had they missed the signs? Were there signs? Hadn’t they done everything, sought the right help, paid the right physician, listened closely in the therapy sessions?

    Why hadn’t their love been enough?

    Of Love Lost…©STMartin2021

    I could only tell them that there was no rhyme or reason as to why I am here and their daughter is not. They did nothing to cause Bipolar Disorder. It doesn’t come from privilege, nor does it spring from want. It isn’t kept at bay with hugs or attention, nor is it fueled by neglect. At least none of this was true in my case.

    My family was dysfunctional, true. So were many of my peers families. So are nearly all families. But my friends had not led lives fueled by a burning need to shoot across the sky in a blaze of purple confetti. Or to try to beat the Guiness world record for consecutive shots of 100 proof vodka. Nor had they experienced the kind of despair that left them lost and disheveled in their bathrobe when they were supposed to be graduating college or accepting an award.

    A very trippy feeling…©STMartin

    I wanted to tell them they did more than my family ever did. That my Mom was the only one who believed that I did not want to be a train wreck. She asked the questions, walked thru broken glass for me and held my hand when the meds weren’t working. But ultimately she couldn’t divert the catastrophe either.

    I’m trying to tell you it’s not your fault. Grieve the loss, but don’t blame yourself. I know when the darkness comes over me, it’s no one’s fault. And if I hold on really tight, it will pass. I white-knuckle it many nights, but a new day always dawns.

    One day in the future there will not be any mental illness, or suicide. Until then just love your Bipolar person, hold on tight when you can and bask in their amazing glow. Be there when their sparklers fizzle and love them back to their feet. When they jump in their little rocket ships to the moon, put on a brave smile and wish them all the love in the world…till you meet again.

    And if you are Bipolar and you are feeling alone, please reach out if you can. Know that you are worthy of love and that this darkness will eventually pass. You will be back on top again. The rain will stop. The sun will shine, the pain will ease. Hold on for dear life my friend.

  • An Artist’s Realization:

    An Artist’s Realization:

    Stepping Off

    What did I dream of then ? The freedom to create new art, better art than anyone had done before. I dreamt of sculpture, glorious-creamy-marble-gleamy sculpture. Human form expressed in visions of living flesh to make one weep.

    Pushing the limits of what had gone before, finessing my gift to a razor fine point that would etch images so tantalizing that Albrecht Durer would be green with envy. I had no doubt in my teenage grandiosity that these goals were within my reach, I knew I was “that good”. All the tools were laid before me, I believed they would always be freely given by a grateful world, an appreciative audience who would grease my path to slide into the role of a modern day Michelangelo, only in female form.

    KODAK Digital Still Camera

    Perhaps I dreamed a bit large, but how wonderful to entertain such beliefs! With no guardrails to hem in my imagination my art soared, with no thought to the cost of materials or the the limiting exhaustion that real world work brings.

    Well, guess what? I am making those dreams a reality today. I found someone who is willing to give me a chance, an opportunity to learn from his experience. I gathered my courage and kept asking, even when it seemed like I was getting nowhere. After following up on a suggestion a local CAD artist made to seek out this artist (thank you Alex!); I am proud to say I am learning from metal artist Frank Strunk III.

    My dreams are NOT dead, I AM following my passion. I have the drive and vision, now with a little funding I will be soaring again! Soaring! On riveted metal wings, in welded metal carriages, in sculpted hot-air balloons and on the backs of giant imaginary sea creatures! Watch me soar, man!!!

  • What it all Means

    What it all Means

    Seeking Deeper Meaning in my life, thru my Art:

    I’m faced with this question. Making a statement about my art, who I am as an artist. What do I want people to feel? Do I want them to feel?

    Ok, here’s something I can bite into…

    The Commute ©STMartin2022
    1. Yes, I want to evoke emotion. I want my art to stir feelings, awaken buried longings. I want you to identify with the people in my artwork, see something of yourself.
    2. I’ve tried so hard to reach others close to me, people who should have supported me in my trials. Who turned their back on me. I have tried to explain myself, given access to my thought processes in the hopes that some one out there can understand their mother, sister, daughter. Understand that those of us touched by this fire didn’t ask to be different.
    3. Expand reality. Allow the viewer to delve into their own psyche…Give them permission to explore their perception of what is ‘normal’. Allow the viewer the chance to explore their entrenched beliefs without ridicule. Give them room to adjust their perceptions in their internal dialogue
  • Many Moons: A New One Rises

    Many Moons: A New One Rises

    Sailor’s Delight, c. STMartin2016
    Blue Sorrow, c.STMartin2016
    Discontent, c.STMartin2016
    Revelation on the Drive #2, c.STMartin2016
    There’s a Bad Moon on the Rise, all images ©STMartin

    Hold on Tight

    This Artist is changeable, like the wind. I dance from one canvas to the next, one substrate to the next in an endless flow of ideas. To stop the flow of creativity is to stop my heart from beating. My Art from beating.

    The Mania GROWS!
    “100 Must-Have Looks”(detail)
    A JOYFUL SOLD CRAB !
    Plant Lady is Ticked!Painted Tart Pan©STMartin2018
    I love Finding these in thrift shops and yard sales, and making them rise from the ashes as new art!
    Mania Illuminata
    Mania Illuminata, sold
    Spring Hearts Jello Mold
    “Mania Illuminata” sold
    KODAK Digital Still Camera
    KODAK Digital Still Camera
    KODAK Digital Still Camera
    Many of My 3-D works from the past 6 Years…All works and images ©STMartin
    A Flashback!
    A Found Concrete Block!
    Munson, a treasured friend, mixed media by s.t. martin
    Stockings,Grocery Bags, Palm Fronds, An Ironing Board!
    Another Cement Block Creation!
    Early 3-D OUTPOURINGS ©STMartin

    Being bipolar causes duality of purpose in me, and in my work. SIMULTANEOUS urgings: High, Low, Sideways, Backwards; Round. And yet , somehow, a cohesive whole is made.

    I AM STRONG TODAY. I AM FREE OF THE BAGGAGE OF MY PAST TODAY.

    I RUN UNDER A SAILING SKY, WILD-EYED and BREATHLESS… there IS a way forward for me… I WILL FIND IT. MY ARTISTIC VISION WILL NOT BE DENIED. I AM GOING TO MAKE PUBLIC RECYCLED METAL SCULPTURE. IT WILL BE IN PARKS AND GARDENS, IT WILL CELEBRATE THIS GLORIOUS ACT OF LIVING.

    Back when I was a semi-pro pool player I had a mantra, because I was a clinch player. I came back when I was down, and that can demoralize an opponent, when you can beat them. But it wasn’t about that, not for me. It was staying in the game, never quitting, never saying ‘die’.

    This quote has been attributed to many, so I will attribute it to an anonymous kindred spirit:

    “It’s not the dog in the fight; It’s the fight in the dog.”

    I have tried to associate myself with the local metal sculptors here in St. Pete, I have offered my labor free, begged for apprenticeships, offered to be the coffee runner, the shop cleaner, the grinder… I’ve been here 4 years now, and I feel choked and thwarted.

    I know I’m older, I know I’m a woman, I know I’ve got marks against me as someone with “disabilities”. BUT I’M STILL HERE, AND MY VOICE WILL BE HEARD. What I have to contribute HAS VALUE! I can work most men under the table, even in the shape I’m in. (Ok, I could work my ex-husband under the table, which isn’t sayin’ much cause he was usually loaded!! But I AM a very hard worker…)

    I’m strong as an OX and twice as GOOD LOOKING!!

    So, while I have been quietly seething here in Pine Bay, creating my works on canvas, on board, on paper…. Painting my recycled furniture and selling cute little cat pictures…. THERE is a SHE -TIGER here in this cage…and I have found a way out.

    I am NOT giving up, I am not going anywhere, and I’m certainly NOT GOING QUIETLY!

    So, whether you see me shooting across the sky on the back of a winged Andalusian Stallion, dashing past you in my ‘souped up’ Kia Soul, or building a mind-boggling , solar powered work in a local park, be forewarned…

    THIS OLD DOG HAS A LOT OF FIGHT LEFT…

  • New Thoughts for a New Year

    New Thoughts for a New Year

    The Dreaming Forest , Oil Pastel on Board, ©STMartin2021

    Belief: Trust, Faith and Confidence in something or someone…an Acceptance that a statement is true or something exists

    In Success: I have proven to myself, over and over again, that my work sells. That I am much better at marketing, and that with more effort I can do better still.

    Dresser with Flowers from Space ©STMartin2021

    In Ability: Similar to my belief in my success, but here I’m including my ability to grow in skill. I have shown that I am teachable, I can learn apply new techniques rapidly, and love the learning process. I have an open mind to new art practices.

    Unhinged, Acrylic on Canvas ©STMartin2021

    In Purpose: I see myself becoming more self sufficient, more confident. Growing in my pursuit of a life independent of outside aid. I see myself looking outward to helping others, a reachable goal. Purposeful sharing of my gifts.

    In Vision: Understanding what I want to say in each work, what I see the outcome looking like. Embracing my inner voice, allowing her to speak about her journey. Letting that be the goal. Reaching out towards new horizons, letting my heart expand.

    The Commute, Oil Pastel on canvas© STMartin2021

    These are new thoughts, today. A plan. Guideposts. I need these set before me in a tangible way. Gentle reminders to stay on point, stay on the path of growth.

    I climb out of the muck of the past today, put my feet on the crag. Climbing, Reaching, Learning….Living.

    Documenting my journey, my successful artist’s journey.

  • Gratitude Big

    Gratitude Big

    There aren’t many days like this, so I will hold this one really tight. With both hands. And after the day is done I will fold it up neatly and find a safe place for it in my jewelry box, where I keep my special things. Things I like to take out and hold from time to time. A favorite rock, a marble. A feather from an osprey. Or this special grateful day.

    Chair.

  • A Long Lost Love

    A Long Lost Love

    I love etching. I haven’t done a “real” etching in about 40 years; since high school. We had a brand new state-of-the-art printing press. It had been installed in 1978 and here I was, a couple years later in advanced art classes with the finest teacher I ever had, Mr. O’Hara. At the time I did not think I liked the man, he was always on my case, pushing me and prodding me to expand my horizons. All I wanted to do was get high and draw my trippy burnout monsters. These were the days of Frank Frazetta and Heavy Metal The Movie; my dreams were filled with animation and album covers. But Mr. O’Hara had this printing press. And he intended to make me use it.

    First it was wood cuts. Hmmmm…This was pretty cool. One block, lots of options, different colors, placements and copies! Prints everywhere! I had written a poem about a nuclear holocaust, Mr. O’Hara had us make a book…I was impressed, and so were my Peers and parents. Which was unbelievable, they never turned the TV off long enough to know what color my hair was any given month. (It was many different colors, but not like today. We just had blue/black and red and blonde… I tried them all.) Getting back to the printing press, my curiosity was really piqued. Then we did a lino cut…again, very cool. I was into it now. Then he gave us some history and some homework.

    Etching. Renaissance. Rembrandt. Etching. Albrecht Durer. Zinc Plate etchings. I was enthralled: Oh the detail. The crazy details. It was better than smoking dope! I am so grateful today to have had the chance to be taught by Mr. O’Hara. I have often wished I could contact him and thank him for pushing me. He really cared, and I will always be indebted to him for seeing who I could be.

    yesterday’s piece: Too Soon to Yo Mama (Tucson to Yuma

    These pieces aren’t etchings, they are oil pastel sgrafitto. To me, though, they have the feel of etchings. The tiny lines, intricate detail. Not like a finished etching, but those wonderful moments when you are scratching the eensy-weensy picture onto the plate. I have even gone so far as to ‘etch’ a lamp globe and a mannequin in the past few years! Oh, the long lost love of mine!!

    .

  • What You Made Me Feel (Blue-Eyed Johnny)

    What You Made Me Feel (Blue-Eyed Johnny)

    Photo by Clement percheron on Pexels.com

    So Long Ago was Yesterday; I thought it was Gone…but I was wrong. I understand now; I was stuck Here all along.

    Now that I know, can I go?

    No. Not now, maybe not ever. You have to remember, see? I need you to remember me. My family long ago passed on, they kept my picture right above the mantle, and I carried theirs’. I carried ours. Draped it around my 18 year-old neck like the roses on a Derby winner; around my neck like the rifle I carried. Around my neck just like my dog tags-the one’s that made that certain sound when they touched. You must remember. I am not a ghost, there are no such things. I am just a memory, dead in the dust, gone like the wisp of smoke that curled from the tip of the gun that killed me. Remember me, now and then.

    A wisp of smoke…

    More now. The children are on the battlefields today- at this very minute-with eyes of cornflower blue. Searching the horizon, squinting against the glare of sunlight that slants off the desert rock like a razor. Blue eyes scanning roadsides, green eyes scouring midnight skies for tell-tale vapor trails. Brown eyes staring blindly back at the insides of their night vision goggles, looking into eternity.

    ” Sweet Child in time, you ought to see the line-the line that’s drawn between the goodness and the bad. See the blind man? He’s shooting at the world; the bullets flying, taking their toll…If you’ve been bad (lord, I’ll bet you have) and you’ve not been hit, not been hit by flying lead; you’d better close your eyes-you’d better bow your head…

    Wait for the ricochet.”

    ©DeepPurple Sweet Child in Time

    Flashback 937

    I came across this post I wrote a few years ago, and it resonates with me today in light of recent events. War is always the worst of mankinds’ inhumanity, nothing has changed in the years since Vietnam. I was a baby when first exposed to war thru a little black box that sat on a shelf next to where Mother sat me in my crib some 50 odd years ago. To this day the sound of chopper blades overhead stops me in my tracks; I peer up in questioning wonder-not sure what I am looking for. Maybe my Mom’s cammo-clad lover to rappel down and proclaim fatherhood of me, maybe for shots to ring out and stop my questions forever…

    Today I am exposed to a little black tablet that bombards me with images of my unborn sons and daughters dressed in their uniforms, riding in Hummers, riding in wheelchairs, riding in hearses, riding away, always away…Day after dreaded year the casualties mount while my one life ebbs away: How many have sacrificed themselves in my 57 years? Have I even cried that many tears in this lifetime? How many is enough (Children? Tears?) to give to the General’s who orchestrate this endless miserable charade.

    I feel sick. All the time. And when I think of Johnny, I cry. I know and I believe and I am promised and he is promised, PROMISED a resurrection by the One true Ruler of this Universe, so soon I will hold my soldier in my arms and look long into those crystal blue living eyes.

    Until then, I will think of Blue-Eyed Johnny, and I will remember…

    with love.