I am an Artist, Poet and Author. I am so much more than this: I feel like a tiny seed that sprouted in a desert, and now has grown into a Passion Vine. My Art is my Voice, Screaming, Crying, Praying, Loving, Laughing, Healing- all in Riotous Color…
Soon we will finally have peace , enough for everyone, everywhere. No more fighting or hatred. Love will prevail, goodness will triumph. And I will be with my loved ones again.
So I will hold on, just a little while longer. ALL the prophecies WILL come true. And I will be with you, again. Forever.
Writing used to be a source or therapy for me. My private world of imaginary confidences, unseen friends who listened intently and loved me fiercely. I would share my deepest wishes and dreams, safely. A sense of comfort would come from answers to my problems and daily pains, answers that I know came from inside of me (because I’m the only one here, ya know?) but that seemed like they came from a guide. This inner guide is always here, and I’m not talking about my conscience or “higher power”. No, this “inner voice” ususally sounds like my Mom. Mom when she wasnt fussing at me, or angry at me. Mom at her best friend/ Mom best. A sister, a twin… a smarter twin.
I know I can write anytime, any where; I used to fill volumes of spiral notebooks. They are all here somewhere, buried in boxes, closets and sheds. When I got my first laptop thirty (THIRTY?) years ago, I had a private journal. But we artists have such egos, and on some level I thought someone out there would benefit from my self examination, rumination and basic self-pity. So I “went public” with my thoughts. For a while, even perhaps a year or two, I still felt the feeling of off-loading and relief after a writing session. I was honest and open and the feelings flowed out, just as they do in my other art.
“Fleeting”
After a while though, I started getting anxious about what I would write, how much I would share, who were my readers and what content they wanted. Would anyone “like ” my entry? Was I furthering my art “career” or hindering it? was I being too spiritual or sharing too personal information? My writing style, was it easy to digest or too flowery…ad nauseum.
It has progressed to the point now till no longer look forward to sitting down with my imaginary sister, she has disappeared into the shadows deep inside my mind. I miss her, and really need to find her again. I still create my beautiful art, but my poetry voice is silent and has been for a long time. I am filled with a sadness , a longing to share my heart with her. I think she just got tired of my insincerity, always trying to be “ON” for an audience, always trying to impress. I traded my muse for a star that not only faded, it never rose in the first place. And I feel a chill when I see this empty page.
I must find her, see if she will listen when I tell her how much I need her. That all this fandom and chasing sales is a bunch of baloney. Losing her just takes the shine off of it all, and I am all locked up inside a tiny empty box of a mind. It’s a cliche at this point, but a mind is a terrible thing to waste. I always wondered what her name was, this friend who comforts me so, who helps me figure out which direction to take and who gives me that pat on the back when the going gets rough. I know her name now: it’s Sanity.
It’s funny that I don’t write in my journal anymore…I used to write every night, pouring my heart out, writing poetry and telling my dreams. No one ever read the words, and I was free to say what I truly had in my heart. It really helped me, healed me…
After many years of “blogging”, I’ve stopped writing what I truly feel. I try to edit myself. I long for the days when the rhymes flowed like water from a hillside spring, where it bursts forth crystal clear and cold. Facts, cold hard truth rolling off my lips.
Unedited. Untainted. The real un-lacquered Susan Todd.
Who put all this Angst in me? Filled me full of Green Envy? Longing for Love I’ll never feel again, Beauty I’ll never possess. I liken myself to a Crow, picking up every shiny thing, putting it in my nest, until suddenly there is no room for me. I’m buried under the things I wanted to own.
Yet, again, my pockets are empty. And my heart is full.
A comedy of coincidences, an epiphany of errors. Is this really ALL I’ve managed in a span of 6 decades? How did I squander so much? Why do I now want what mattered so little?
I have been contemplating what to wear to a big art exhibition I’m in on Thursday. I’m flying up to Chicago for Insights VI, I’ll be there with my Patrons, Dusty and Joyce Sang, and it will be a night full of emotion. It’s not so much what I’ll wear as to who I will be. I’ve found I deal with it better if I put on a costume of sorts, an identity. Then if I’m scared I can hide behind my persona. I used to do this unconsciously in the Usingtime. Now I choose to do it to feel safe.
I will choose to be confident and brave. To be different and cool. To be an Artist extraordinair!
Oh, my. So much going on in the world today. So many sad stories, War and pain all around us. It can feel so…
HEAVY.
and it is. I feel it, the weight of this life… It’s not killing me today, though. Not like it used to in the Usingtime.
There were days when I believed the pain of living was too much to bear. Days I self-medicated to blot out stark reality; the blinding daylight. Me in my little wormhole of misery, for 23 long years. It’s amazing how, after 24 years of sobriety, I can romanticize the Usingtime.
Self Portrait, Pastel, ยฉSusan T. Martin
How beautiful I was that night when, slobbering drunk, I danced like a lunatic at an all-night bottle club. Or, how sexy I was when I fell on my butt coming out of a biker bar. Yeah, that was one to remember. Thank God there was no YouTube back then. It’s seared in the “MeTube” of my mind, though. Yeah, those were the gritty days: searing stomach pains from drinking 151 Rum: black eyes and a broken nose from “talking back” to a drunken ex-husband. Hiding my arms with long sleeve flannel shirts in the dead heat of August, while my Mom visited me for 2 weeks. All I could think about was sneaking my next hit.
Reader, “Is this just a sad, depressed jaunt down memory lane? Cause if it is, I have more problems, more sadness, worse pain than that.”
No, it’s just letting you know there is a way out. A way up. To a higher plane, a happier life, a real life with joy and everything! I needed to remember, to remind myself that I’m NOT that girl anymore. I am a new person with a new personality. God saw my pain, He saw my heart and He drew me to Him.
But I had to hit the bottom. Unfortunately, it is painful to stop using. Very. The light IS bright, and in it all your broken parts are visible. But you can’t fix what you don’t know is broken.
I have finally begun to create again. I was locked in some inner dilemma for quite a while, but then had an epiphany: I must make a move, pick up a pen or a brush. Dab a color on a wall. Move a muscle, change a thought!
So work has started to pour out of me again, and I am pushing to improve. Take myself to new heights . Hopefully in balanced way, but that’s hard with Bipolar Disorder.
I’m flying up to Chicago soon, to go to INSIGHTS VI, the annual exhibition of Art by Bipolar Artists. This is the 5th consecutive win for me, having 5 works in The Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation’s permanent collection now. I am very grateful and look forward to the trip! I will keep you posted!
I won’t bore you with the mundane. Instead I will show you ART. My Beautiful ART. I am having a lightning bolt of creative energy, it would be nice to bottle this electricity. Whatever my brain does when my Bipolar Creativity kicks in is like a superpower.
Like an Artist before me has already written about and created a movie entitled, ” Touched with Fire”, he stated truth. That is what it feels like. His name is Paul, and I highly recommend the film if you want to understand Bipolar Disorder more fully
The Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation has awarded my another grant this year for my work, “Head in the Clouds”. The Call was to create a work that communicated what it feels like to be Bipolar. This is a hugely meaningful event for me, I have grown to love Dusty and Joyce Sang and their family; they founded The Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation in honor of their son who died as a direct result of having this deadly illness. Please do yourself a kindness and visit the Foundation website, read about all the exciting advancements in Science and the Quest for The Test; the research they fund to find a Biomarker for this disease so kids can be diagnosed before the hellish symptoms begin.
I’m so pleased to have my work chosen, this is the 5th year in a row I have received this Grant and will be my 5th work in their Permanent Collection. Oh my…
I wish my Mom and Dad were alive, Mom especially, since she always believed in me and my talent. Daddy had issues, which I understand in retrospect, so I no longer blame him for not paying for me to go to Art School. I made choices that led me down a long and winding road, but I’m here now, clean and sober 24 years and truly happy, all thanks to my God.
I am loving the piece I’m working on now, it’s a whole story if prophecy and future. Boom. It is going to cause quite a stir at The Morean Arts Center Members Show.
. I have had a bit of a setback, lost momentum for a bit. I let myself get frightened and I backed off from my new business endeavor…
. But I am gathering up my courage, and the funds I lost thru my ignorance of Web Hosting companies. It is a minor setback. Pictured above is a new and exciting Jello Mold Art piece I am working on. I’m loving it, incorporating my love of Renaissance art and little whimsical animals, all on one of my recycled vintage copper molds.
. My creativity is flowing. I’ll be on top again soon!
Out of the Gutter Art 
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