I noticed his eyes glare over my painting, “Who are these people?”
A question I’ve heard a thousand times. I want to roll my eyes. I still stumble on my words. I spit out, “I made them up,” or the more dreadful, “I don’t know.”
Lately I’ve been feeling more. The daylight feels brighter. Noise, louder. I feel unbalanced. I feel everything. I’m having trouble feeling embodied, connected, present. Still I paint and ask questions:
How will I ever decide what kind of body to represent if I no longer feel comfortable in my own?
I don’t have the answer right now, so I focus on emotion. Emotion is what I choose to represent.
