My Experience With Painting Number 3 "The Closet"

The task at hand is write about my experience with the 10^th painting in our Childhood Fractured series. And I find myself warm amid the cold clamor of the day, pensive. This exercise has become what it has become. To give it words would be to speak without a tongue. In the spirit of directness, this exercise has become an act of imitation. I am mimicking the torrential downpour of creative instinct with words. I am, more or less, a conduit, however, nothing as far as it has been written, can be taken as cold truth on this cold day. The only truth is our mission; We want to end the sexual abuse and exploitation of children through contemporary art.

There, in front of my brown eyes, was a canvas primed with black paint. In front of the canvas, Allen. I found him in his usual non-distinct variation of meditation. Cheryl was there. She had cornered herself in. Eyeing it all up. Allen announced, for this session, all his strokes were pre-meditated. The entirety of the piece we were about to witness was outlined in his mind.

First, in the colorful way of things, Allen gave form with orange to shelf that could have been found in the closet of childhood bedroom. He navigated this closet shelf. And he navigated his mind. He was navigating himself. As this portion of the piece was finished his narration of the event no longer functioned in a straight line. He was unable to say what it was he wanted to say. Perhaps, the words don’t exist. Perhaps, that is why he paints.

Allen labored away in unharmonious harmony. The canvas, to my eyes, began deliberating on its own character. And I was none the wiser as to its subject matter. We continued onward in this collective, creative straightjacket. I was blind. I could see. I was deaf. I could hear. I was here. And I was lost. I knew little of what was happening in front of me. Until Allen gave me a colored map.

Allen began giving form to his childhood self. Then Mary, the passive participant, in this scene. They were given to us through strokes of red and orange. Allen said all he can remember is having sex with a 6-year-old child. Do not forget Allen was six years old. The same age as Mary. The commissioner of their act was the older sister of Mary. Allen and Mary were forced to have sex together at 6 years of age.

Here, we will give ourselves an intermission and allow a rumination as to what was just written. Allen, at the age of 6 was forced to have sex with another girl at the age of six. How perplexing is this? In what banal platitude do we occupy that is conducive to acts such as this? Here, more questions will be wrought than answered. And until we tremor ourselves with these questions, answers will be sands in the wind. And we too, will be lost with it.

I could see a shift in Allen’s character. He was falling into a state of morbid reflection in front of me. He began to clutch his hands. His body tightened. Tears began to make their way down his cheeks. I watched one of them splash the floor. Tears that came from memory. Tears have made their way home. Allen hoisted himself back to now. Back to the task at hand. We never know what can be found in the hallways of time.

Allen finished the piece with a sense of guilt. He was hoping people understood what it what it was he was trying to say. Trying to paint. I admonished Allen. He was hoping the emotional tumult he was putting himself though was worth it. I assured him it was. How difficult is it for one person to convey their experience to another? This I am not sure of. I do know, if I find myself with the answer I will tell you. That is, if I can convey it to you.

Do you want to end the sexual abuse and explotation of children?

Do you want to end the sexual abuse and exploitation of CHILDREN? Every child should have sovereignty over their body and mind. Children have human rights. They should be able to grow unharmed, untouched, and unscathed, however, this is not reality. A child is being sexually abused and exploited while you are reading this. Am I responsible for that child? Are you responsible for that child? For that child who has no say over what is being done to them. No control. No power. And will grow with trauma in silence.
We want to end the sexual abuse and exploitation of children. That is why we started this project. No child should ever be sexually abused and exploited. We are using our art to raise awareness on the international epidemic of sexual abuse. If you share our mission please share our work. The more people that speak or think about the topic of sexual abuse, the closer we as world to ending the sexual abuse and exploitation of children. Please put yourself inside the mind of a helpless child. How do they feel? What are they going through? What is being done to them? And even more, how would they feel knowing there are people out there trying to help them, reach them, and change their life for the better.
Share our work. Share our message. Talk about sexual abuse and exploitation of children. Help us realize our goal!

My Experience With Painting Number 12 "The Monster King and His Sirens"

          This day was a loosely organized one. Things seemed to come together as they came together. It was as if this painting, on the whole, could not have happened any other way. The farther up the life stream I wander, the more I become awash with an unfathomable sensation that things, events, and people can only happen the way they happen. The words I am writing now, at this moment, can only be written the way I am writing them. All the work we have done so far could only of happened the way it happened.

          There we were in Allen’s studio. The lights were shining above.  Allen was in front of the canvas primed with light purples, breathing heavy, preparing for the emotional tumult that would ensue. Cheryl, with her eyeful tact, which I have grown accustomed to, took up her cinematic angles. I was there on the same chair I am always on. We had a visitor with us, Jonathan. I took a peak at his face. It read curiosity. I am sure that expression would change.

          Allen began giving form to a house with sharp yellows. A house that was the home of the most traumatic experiences of his life. The house across the street from his childhood home. The house of the devil. The house of the Morgan’s. Dreadful was the thought of this. Dreadful. I have grown accustomed to seeing the world through Allen’s eyes. I have grown accustom to putting myself in the epicenter of his traumatic, ritualistic sexual abuse.

         Allen continued giving character to the canvas. He painted the street. The foreground. The background. Setting scene. Giving life to the inanimate house. After the structure was there on the canvas, I looked over at our visitor, Jonathan. I had been taking choice glances at his face throughout. His countenance, as mentioned above, was curiosity. It was now mortification. A stale mortification. The expression I would expect when one learns what happened to Allen in that house. I could see through his brown eyes the question of: Why? Why were people doing this to a child? Why was this happening? Why?

         Allen was now intent on giving his form intricate detail. This is a very methodical process. And it is very interesting to watch. Allen continued eyeing up his work. Attacking a spot here and there. Bear in mind he was talking the entire time he was doing this. And then he stumbled upon something without intent. It was a marvelous realization. Imagine Allen as a child looking out the window of his home at the Morgan’s yellow house across the street in heavy contemplation. See him there solemn, jested by the unknowing of childhood. And his mind leads him to the most fundamentals of the human experience; The dichotomy of good and evil. How profound is that? A child is staring across the street at the house of his abusers pondering the horrors that have happened to him. Pondering good and evil.

         Allen was working through this thought aloud and in front of us. This was a marvel. My consciousness was sidelined by this. I fell, once more, into a bubble of self-absorption. And I was there amid the beehive of organic creativity, meditating on the life I have lived and the sexual abuse I have lived through.

         We finished and took a collective exhale. Allen sat down exhausted. Cheryl took a seat on the steps. Jonathan was in the same seat. Words had lost him by this point. We took turns reflecting on this experience aloud. Cheryl said something interesting in relation to her sexual abuse. She remembers very clearly, scene. The scene of where it happened, what the house looked like, what the room looked like, what color the walls were and so on. Allen concurred with this and so did I. It was evident Allen shared Cheryl’s sentiment, he just painted it. I remember with vivid detail the two houses I was abused in. The furniture. The color of the walls. The time of day. The color of the sheets. There is something to say for this.

         Allen finished this piece in spite of the day. In spite of the complex trenches of everyday life. There in front of us once again. And Allen gave me a very nuanced insight into the work we are doing. At the core of ending the sexual abuse and explotation of children is the dichotomy of good and evil. That eternal dichotomy. The dichotomous bulwark that is the human experience. The duality of it all. That is at the core of what we are doing. That is a position for the flawed minds of antiquity to take up, is it not? Is it not beyond the plebian realms of understanding? Good and evil. This among many others things I do not know. Good and evil. Huh. Who would have thought.  

Some Thoughts

At once I am compelled, from a state of convoluted confusion, to make sense of the sexual abuse of children. And to make sense of my sexual abuse. This ‘sense’ seems to be far outside the realms of my understanding and lends itself with tact to the confusion I am possessed of. A confusion stemming from the questions: why children are being sexually abused? Why isn’t the sexual abuse stopping? Will it ever stop? When meditating on this topic with mindful broad strokes, I, of course, wind up in the same place I started. A place of not knowing.

                The sexual abuse of children is one of the greatest epidemics of human history. And as I continue to unravel all that has transpired within the context of myself, Allen, Cheryl, and ‘Childhood Fractured’ our project, and its relation to the universal epidemic of sexual abuse, I fall victim to exasperation. I write this with heavy hands. I have no certainty as to why children are being sexually abused. What a frightening place to be.

                Contemporary society has achieved so much. Contemporary has achieved so little. This work has brought me into the beginning of knowing. I am now possessed of a more thorough understanding of the sexual abuse of children and its societal context. This is a harrowing dilemma. No matter what talents I or others may be possessed of, ending the sexual abuse of children will not happen in our lifetime. At times, when self-doubt attempts to get the best of me, it would have me revert to a state of ignorance on this topic. How easy would it be to continue with life in this way? I am finding ignorance truly is bliss. I suppose we all trudge through the trenches of adulthood, reverting, going about this life in straight lines accruing what needs to be accrued on the way.

                I can never unlearn what I have learned through working on this project. And as one of the co-captains of this ship, I must find humility in the prospect of sinking into the murky waters of public ignorance. We will navigate these waters as best we can. We will find land, as it were, but the nights are dark, the waters are dark, and we cannot yet see the sun. We know it is there. And I wish us Godspeed, for I know in my heart of hearts, we will need it.

The Bare Foot Boy

v  In the shift of your day we find the feet of a bare soul. Watch it swim through black wonder. Watch it pull a thread from the white fabric of time. This is done without hands. As it is willed, soul turns too body for divine compromise. The soul finds a home within a boy. He can be found in his home. Windows allow a sun to have its living room. Light is given through choice. What isn’t illuminated? The task of life. An empty vase on a table. And a girl who, without notice, comes into view. Who is she?

v  Sigmund Freud on hysterical phenomena in relation to memory: “The fading of a memory or the losing of its affect depends on various factors. The most important of these is whether there has been an energetic reaction to the event that provokes an affect.” Perhaps he would have us all hysterics. Of us that are cynics, bear to heart, the man balanced the banal plane of altruism. Or, this is to say, nothing.

v  She is Michelle. She is in view. Of her hair, blonde. Of her face, freckled. An oversized shirt and a simple skirt with pockets cover her body. That is enough. She maneuvers through what has been given. Watch it ripple. She is looking for something. This is reflected in her tip-toeing. A slanted youth. As if she, the thing, is possessed of herself. Is her compromise, in and of itself, not worthy of divinity? She hears the barefoot boy. A nose is lifted. And a mouth waters in delight.

v  It is suggested to reflect from the length of an arm. No one involved in this text is to be lionized. Humanize lions.

v  Michelle has cornered our boy in his bedroom. Her nose is lowered. Mouth drenched. After 

standing over him, she engages base appetites. It starts with a hand upon flesh. A piercing silence is where it ends. This repeats with time. What hasn’t been said? The burden of memories to come. Trauma. A resting place of the flowers. And a woman who, without notice, comes into the bedroom. Who is she?

v  Freud – “An injury that has been repaid, even if only in word, is recollected quite differently from one that has to be accepted.” Economic, is it not? To allot compensatory measures to the word. I would pluck from all, repair. Not repaid. This will be left here.

v  She is the boy’s mother. Of her hair, red. Of her face, symmetry. A simple pantsuit covers her body. She inserts herself between Michelle and the offspring. Her queries are of fury. Watch Michelle flinch. Watch the boy’s solemn wince. Aside from the wrinkles of closed eyes, nothing is revealed. Mother clothes her son and takes him by the hand. He is to pull more fabric. See Michelle fade into red memory.

v  You! Creature, staring down your nose at these words. Sit upright. Position yourself for reception. I am the apology extended. Why? This undertaking is beyond his powers. It is not owed to you, yet, through you it is given. Yes. Far beyond their power.

v  Mother and boy find a new home. It is nice enough. Injuries are never repaid, even in word. What will never be shared?

*

v  Growth was for our barefoot boy. Unravel your mind’s eye. This would have us at the delta of red memories. Here, he would move through time. Oh, He would wind through it. Yes. Everything compromised in a moment, a scene, a memory conceived by its own constrictions. Ephemeral trickery for the sages. As a snake coils itself in a garden. An attempt at status nascendi. They would have us hysterics. You know this. Or, beneath the water of all days you couldn’t

v  A sparse kitchen table. Through his eyes, it would be unassuming. Eyes awash with sights of days’ past. Mother was in the pantry. After withdrawing from laborious labor she made a meal to share. Sharp was our child’s confusion. He looked down at his empty plate. A matte smooth surface.

v  “What happened to me mom?” She fed him. He slept. A whisper. Everything is going to be fine. I love you. What is the soul to eat? Sharp was its confusion. It looked down at memory. Flat and lean.

v  Footnotes are given with trauma. How daring is it to capture a passed one? It is not of you that this question is asked, yet, through you it is mentioned. You live here.

v  Our barefoot child moved onward. What was left? A switch in home and room. Pluck at the callouses over your hands. Gnaw at your nails. Life, as it were, foreword as behind, may have been lost to darkness.

v  He came of age. This was wrought in the city. Here, transgressions in kind moved behind mountains. Imagine this. In a classroom. Michelle is there. She will howl with the posture of a phantom. Her finger will press against our boy’s forehead. Or is he older?

v  The teacher commanded the boy’s attention. Anywhere outside free birds could be found. We have lost our track. A barefoot child, ah, but before it was memory. Chanting recants of confusion. He will encounter Michelle’s deeds found in a different body. It was to be wrought in the city. Body upon body. The soul’s never touch. They would have us hysterics.

**

v  In the shift of your day we find our barefoot child, lost. Mother was there. As was the house built of blood and brick. What was this house possessed of? Imagine. I have lead you this far. Men were moving about in suits. Of them was the estranged stranger. Who was he?

v  The people of the house became aware of themselves. It is for the lack of that our child was unware of himself. Unaware of soul in body. They would have us hysterics.

v  He is Tommy. He is in view, there, at a large dinner table. Of his head, bulbous. Of his mind, broken.  A simple black suit covered his body. He was sat a large dinner table. As were the suits beside their harem. Mother was there. As was our barefoot child. Two great Danes wandered about. Gentile were these giants. Not protectors. A meal was shared between them. As was the blood spilled and word.

v  What is to happen when a meal finishes? Perhaps, everything. Our boy, in time, left the table, danced in spirit, and found himself in the home once more. See his dancing soul.

v  Our boy walked up a swirling stairwell. The carpet was worn. He found a landing to sit on. Innocence was his preoccupation. Exploring himself. This was done through the oblique of intelligence. Yes. The innocence of youth. Sweet glory is the unknowing of good and evil. The sweet indifference of childhood. Once again this was to be stolen from your boy. Upon the landing, he attracted the attention of a curious onlooker.

v  What have we managed here? Not much in the way of all things. Names have been gifted. Sweet is the proxy of apologies for the lack of powers.

v  There, the boy was upon the landing still. The onlooker turned into that that has been given a name. Tommy. He approaches the boy, bulbous. Not of his transgressions shall we wince, yet, through them we must. Somewhere, before returning to the source, apologies are made for his concupiscent handicaps. Of his soul through body, all has been lead astray. He leads our boy, astray, into a bathroom.

v  Body upon body. Souls never meet. Only concerning the spatial realm.

v  The lights above are burning. Tommy’s desire is bright. Our boy is darkened out of view. It began with words and ended with the exposition of flesh. More transpired, however, it is lost with trauma of red memory passed.

v  Our boy comes too, trembling in a closet. And those trembling hands are placed upon his knees. Tears may fall down his cheeks. This is the compensation of soul. At once, he exits the closet to find himself in his mother’s arms. The scene below has grown boisterous. Everyone involved lionize themselves and their deeds. Tommy fades. He will find Michelle in the red delta of memory.

***

v   We have mentioned the boy comes of age. And it is wrought in the city. He will reconcile all he can. Soul will fade behind body to see what can be endured. It will not amount to much. He will meet the bodies of women. Their souls never touch. It is more of snake eating snake. This has all been for what? Creatures will grovel in the garden. And their bodies with them. I am there in body, lest my soul heals in the city.

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