Hi, fellow Art fanatics! I’m very glad you are able to visit me here. This isolation is wearing heavily on my battered little brain. Please tell your friends who love a good laugh, interesting art and insight into head injury coupled with a Bipolar Disorder diagnosis. It can get loud in here! I welcome the visitors, and also love to read your comments.
The fall I took 2 weeks ago has left a dent (it’s OK to laugh, I am-even when it hurts!) in my work production. I am dealing with BPPV* symptoms and they are fierce. I finally realized my exhaustion is more than depression again, so after forcing myself to clean house at 1:30AM, I performed the Eppley maneuver. I bent to the left this time, as I could actually discern more pain and pressure when I leaned that way, and sure enough I incurred violent vertigo and headache. The therapy helped: I am able to post this and am enjoying a cup of hot cocoa, with mini marshmallows.
This inner drive I have, the endless pressure to do more, do better…it can be so toxic when I am battling a disability. It makes me furious that I am limited in any way, and coupled with my overwhelming need for approval causes me major doubts about my ability as an artist. It’s so crazy, because I can see the art I put out-endlessly, constantly, incredibly- day after day. I see that I do things no one else can do, I read the praises people post, I hear the kind words of the curators and collectors…but I still feel like a child…that little girl with a broken pencil hiding her picture from everyone.
I have come to expect these days of self doubt. Days when the critics come out of the cheap paneling, surrounding me, poking me with long, blue fingers: “Is that all you can do?” ” What’s that supposed to be?” “My brother draws better than you…”
What the &%#$? is going on? Why must my mind be tormented as well as my body? Why?
Why?
*BPPV stands for Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo which can result from a Traumatic Brain Injury.
I know why… it’s a battle that has raged down thru the ages… And it may be that secret ingredient that pushes us to create something, some day, of true and lasting greatness. Will I? Perhaps, perhaps not-but I will never quit trying. Maybe that is my best work yet.
Did I ever tell you my nickname as a small child? It was ‘Paper Factory’. Not Kissy Poo, not Huggy Bear…no, it was Paper Factory. The reason being that I was always sitting, round-tipped scissors in hand, with a swath of construction paper scraps strewn around me. It was like the Saturn’s rings, little pieces, big pieces and lots of Elmer’s. Along with buttons and bits of ribbon and whatever small rodent pelt I happened to have skinned off that day…I like fur, what can I say? So, I guess they could have called me Buffalo Bill, or Hannibal Lecter…Paper Factory was strange enough…
Some of the 3D Stuff I’ve made…
(As a side point, I did not kill the fuzzy little animals, I left that up to Munson the cat. And I especially liked mole fur… )
Anyway, I liked to build little art items, and I still do. Assemblage. What an excellent word. Assemblage. Not gluing stuff together, not making doo-hickies…Assemblage. Very noble.
My fondness for construction had few outlets in public school, except for my advanced art class with Mr. O’hara. I hated him for being critical of my work, and I loved him for pushing me to new heights. He sent one clay sculpture I made to a show in New York City, along with some other kids, and he helped me believe in myself. Even if I was a dope smoking, quaalude eating burnout. The aforementioned sculpture was a handbuilt piece, which I built on my own hand, with the palm morphing into a face and the wrist and forearm becoming a cloven hoof, and for good measure, a rat climbing thru the guy’s eye and out his mouth. Or perhaps into his mouth and out his eye. Interestingly, I cut up one of my Dad’s fine Chinchilla fur gloves and glued it to the bull’s leg…I can’t remember if I furred the rat… Anyhow, I was able to hang onto that piece into adulthood till I broke it in one drunken rage, or another. The next assemblage was a piece using syringes I heisted from Mother’s veterinarian stockpile (no needle) and vitamin tablets and capsules from Dad’s medicine cabinet. Adding a razor blade and some baby powder to my collage, and an image of an unconscious teenager, I was pleased with the result, and all Mr. O’hara did was give me an A+ and a raised eyebrow. Unfortunately, the Principal didn’t appreciate low brow art and my masterpiece was removed from the senior art show. (That’s OK, cause the vitamin E capsules had melted…)
There was a lull in my assemblage repertoire as my scholastic career ended and my addictions progressed. I don’t recall building any art for about 23 years, although I did build a long list of failed relationships, a few arrests and some stints in detox and rehabs.
KODAK Digital Still Camera
KODAK Digital Still Camera
Fast forward to 2014…It was four years after my Mom died, after a long depression and inability to create anything but poems, when I answered a local call to artists. I had never shown any art, but this call launched my formal art career and catapulted me into the local limelight. The call was about Treasure. The east coast of Florida, down around Melbourne to Stuart is called The Treasure Coast because of the mother lode of shipwrecks yielding tons of loot. This particular year was an Anniversary, so they wanted treasure themed art. This was for The Best of the Best show at The A. E. Backus Museum, an international juried season opening show. I knew nothing about the significance of any of this.
My piece was a sculpey carved cat head, which was made in high school 20 years prior , and left out in the garden to moulder. I brought it in, bleached it, and painted it like my deceased Mom’s beloved cat, Munson. As a huge fan of pirate movies when I was a kid, I loved the idea of a treasure chest. So I took all my jewelry, treasured hand-me downs, costume and fine, and proceeded to encrust this cathead like it belonged to the Ali Baba himself. It was a wonderment in its glistening splendor. (no, I don’t have an ego). I even put a rhinestone collar on it and a tag saying, ‘Munson, a Treasured Friend.’ It took an Award of Merit, which was pretty impressive for a first effort. And thusly, my noted career in assemblage began.
It was the tip of the iceberg, and a flurry of 3-D work ensued. A famous dragonfly made of a discarded patio table, curtain rods, gutters , roof decking and a couple of spaghetti forks came next, and a gutter snipe at it’s heels.
MerSea the Maid-Horse
So, you see, my MerSea the Maid-Horse is part of a history of Assemblage excellence, by a little girl called “Paper Factory”.
Paper Factory
PS: Mer Sea’s framework was built in 2015, while I was my Dad’s caregiver. She was all white, with an ironing board frame and wore a prom dress. I kept her in the living room after the show she was in and Dad, in his dementia, loved that horse like it was real. He would pat her on the nose and laugh like a schoolboy. I lost him a few months later. So Mer Sea holds a lot of meaning for me. Seems like everything I create does. But that is as it should be. Because it all began at the feet of the beloved one’s who first put the glue and scissors in my tiny hands. And called my Paper Factory.
This Beauty is one of a pair of Cabintet from a large entertainment stand, The Other is outside, drying…
I have to get the mix just right: a smidgen of anxiety, a pinch of hunger, a good dose of caffeine and just about 48 hours without sleep and *BAM*! The NY creative lightning strikes! Tonight was the night, today was the day, cleaning off my museum pieces with fine brushes, repairing and sprucing up the shelves to display new work… Giving my custom painted floor a deep cleaning in preparation for the faux Renaissance tile I will be handpainting there.
I am pulling out all the stops while the proverbial light is green for GO!! I pulled out all my nearly finished projects for a big push to clear the studio, putting all the months (years?) of pondering into real execution. Clean the brushes, check all the supplies and paint paint paint!!
I was finally motivated to produce my second painting in the “Inside Voice”series. Although I am beset physically with devastating exhaustion, I was able this past week to get some work done. This is very encouraging, I have been fighting the fully immersing fatigue that envelops me each morning.
. I dosed myself up with a handful of vitamins earlier, I take them religiously, today I doubled the quantity and added an iron supplement. I must start eating some fresh fruit and veggies… Not Rocky Road. Anyway, I hope you are doing well, gentle reader.
. Here is my latest work, “Inside Voice #2 “
This work is a 12″x 12″ acrylic on canvas, and will be available for purchase soon.
this isolation is kind of nice, (she thought), it gives me time to explore my thoughts. But too much pondering of self is no good, (she thought to herself), it can get messy. Really, it is messy, all this thinking in isolation, (she remembered), because it makes me so sleepy, (she yawned), not doing the dishes, nor combing my hair, (she sighs), flummoxed, just flummoxed. I should try to eat something, (she groans), but there’s nothing here I want, (she moans) it all takes too much energy… e-n-e-r-g-y…(she sleeps…)footsteps recede, door closes.
Ahhhh, fresh air… Curtains of pale yellow blow in the morning breeze. We know it’s morning, hear the cardinals breakfasting at the feeder. A nuzzle of cold snout under the hand leads to the opening of an eye: Here is Izzy, the proud mom, ready to show us her new brood.
” Good Girl Za-Za!”, we exclaim, thrilled now to sit up, taking a long draw on the crystal glass of water at our bedside.
. “Hey, Kiki old-man! You gonna show us the grand babies?”
. Swing the legs over the side and stretch, then again before standing…
“Show me!”.
. With that, off they dash as we stumble along behind, into the hall then into the den. We can already hear the tiny grunts and squeals as the teeny pups angrily demand breakfast.
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“Get in there, Izzy!” She’s already in the basket, dutifully cleaning little backsides as they squirm and nuzzle in for a teat. “Good Za!”
. She gives us a look of pure bliss, eyes narrow and smiling with a mother’s pride. Not to be outdone, Uncle Kiko, gives a little nose-nudge to the basket as if to say, “I helped too!!”
. ” Good Boy Kiko, you’re a trooper, indeed!”
In the quiet of the morning the scent of brewing coffee tantalizes our senses, and as we look up into the kitchen, there is Dad, in his Dad chair, reading the newspaper as he’s done ten thousand mornings before. He glances up from his cup, mid-sip, to wink and smile, mouthing a silent ‘good-morning’.
. We move down the hall towards Mom’s bedroom, still closed as she slumbers on. We can’t resist a peek, gently opening the door and gliding over to stand and caress her sleeping face with our eyes. She is so beautiful in her repose, a wisp of brown hair touseled over her brow. We must have made a sound, she stirs and the room seems to awaken with her, the birds chirp louder, the golden rays fall around her like the petals of an opening rose. She stretches, smiling, her hand reaches out to touch ours…
Prayer for Magdallia, by Susan T. Martin 9 x 11 Marker on Board $50.00
Hello again, and welcome to the big show! I have begun what will become a Major Series of New Works entitled , “INSIDE VOICE” a series of works that speak to my inner battle with Bipolar Disorder’s lows and maniac highs, my way to shout out how the battle rages on inside even when silence prevails outside.
Many people who meet me may be uncomfortable being near a person diagnosed with mental illness, such as Bipolar Disorder. However, they are often surprised at how “normal” I seem. It has been my experience both with my current diagnosis, and with my original diagnosis of Chronic Depression, that friends and family are amazed that I don’t run around slathering at the mouth, or beating my head against the wall. They often try denial on, “No…not you…” or, ” You seem so happy, normal, well adjusted, calm, smart …”
Some have even gone so far as to comment on my family tree, as in, ” Well your Grandpa was a little odd.” Or the opposite, “Nothing like this has ever been on my side of the family…” In my family, on my Mom’s side, my Grandpa and his Brothers had come to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania from Woodbury, Tennessee because there were good jobs to be had at the State Hospital, which was what insane asylums were called in the early 20th Century in the U.S. The treatment of mental illness was a whole different ballgame back then, my relatives saw many terrible and terrifying things, indeed.
Their positions within these huge hospitals required them to live on the Hospital Grounds in Dormitories, where they could hear the “lunatics” screaming and carrying on all day and night. It’s no wonder they were aghast at the idea that their kin were somehow linked to those poor souls in the “Looney Bin”. I am so glad to live in this century, and I am very grateful to all the poor souls who were the subject of many ghastly experiments and treatments, who helped behavioral science and the Mental Health Community to become what it is today. As a “50 Something” woman who was not properly diagnosed till the age of 32, my life now is a dream compared to the suicide attempts, the self medicating, the self debasing promiscuity, the manic spending, the jail time, the fate-tempting, death-defying thrill-seeking, mayhem-causing pain I lived thru before. The sheer energyit would take to put up a happy, smiling front…man, I needed a eight ball just to keep it up for a weekend.
But it would all unravel in the end. I was not OK. I was really, really not OK. Inside my head I was screaming, and my thoughts were rolling at warp speed. I was that cat on the electric floor in that Steven King movie, running up the walls. I would try to hold down a job, and this is after a year of sobriety, after a few hours I would go to the loo and hide, shaking like a leaf. After about a year and a half clean and sober, I got my hands on my first credit card and inheritance at the same time and bought 5 acres in the wilderness, had it cleared and levelled, had a well dug, fenced it and then went to the mall and purchased a bunch of tanzanite and diamond jewelry, winding up spending over 20 grand in 2 weeks(and ultimately filing a chapter 13 bankruptcy).
Mania Illuminata, sold
Interspersed between those bouts of mania, where I seemed so “normal”, I would cry. And cry. And Finally I just couldn’t take the pain anymore, so a dear friend said I should go to a local Mental Health Facility, called New Horizons. I was given this ancient psychiatrist who looked wizened, emaciated and nearly blind. But, bless her heart, she had me pegged. With her help, with my determination to stick with my med trials, with a great therapist and social worker, I have been able to stay alive there past 23 years, now clean and sober for 21 of them, come September.
. So, anyway…(whew, that was quite a tirade!)…I am painting this series to let you look inside a person with this illness, look into this inner world and I promise I will use my “INSIDE VOICE”.
footsteps recede, door closes. 
Out of the Gutter Art 
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