Dhaka Drawings : Portrait of a woman

I was wondering throughout the day, how much of this thought I would post. In the end. I thought best to post it in its entirety. Although some friends may raise questions – I think this thought has given me a lot of clarity. Maybe it will give others some inspiration too.



Sometimes, my life can be overwhelming.  I am not going to comment on the subject much – nor what it represents for me in this blog post – but rather, a tangent thought that I wrote whilst drawing. 

As I sit and draw J. outside her house, with her daughter chained to the rails, I absently begin questioning my understanding of what it is to Love? J. is willing to let her daughter go to a better place, if possible, even if she cannot see her. She knows it will hurt.

And I question what it is to be True to one self? And what it feels like to be Loved? Perhaps my own cowardice, my own weaknesses have let me down, have made me afraid to pursue Love fully. The possibility of hurt, of rejection, of humiliation time and again, makes it easier to not pursue Love, nor to expect it from anyone.  Walls are easy to put up, hard to break down.  The Love of and from friends and family often seems plenty. I have an amazingly wonderful support network across the world. It truly humbles me to think about that. This other, crazy maddening Love seems to be reserved for the artist that resides within.

My thought, that Love really is much bigger than Art, and no matter how much energy and love I put into the Art, it does not compensate, and it can never be the same as the feeling of loving another so completely, helplessly and having it returned.

I question myself, is it madness that consumes us when we fall in love? Or is it something else, the other? A feeling of overwhelming completeness? I have felt this once so far. It, the Love, gave me the confidence to reconnect with my Art, and at the same time ripped my very soul – connecting emotionally, to be able to articulate with words what it is to be able to feel.

Am I afraid that I will never find it again? Of course. It came across by chance, and I know these things are rare, if they occur at all. Do I dare to go in search of it again? No.
I have my memories, and now when I have time to produce it, my Art. Although it will never be the same again, I guess my own Truth is becoming more apparent. I saw what I was willing to do for this Love, and it shocked me, my immaturity, in fact, my inability to handle it, saddened me. I am not sad now.

It is better to focus on the Art, I know it gives me a certain amount of peace, in fact, sanity – and it provokes my soul to look, listen and feel.

Yet, how dare I write and complain about not having this Love? I realise my ungratefulness, the spoilt brat within me that wants everything. How sad it feels to write these thoughts at times.

I challenge myself again – Is it really ‘just’ to be able to compare what I am going through, whilst sitting and drawing J.? whose problems are much more real than mine? Whose reality I can never experience, or portray through drawing.

And why am I even daring to write these thoughts and posting them on the blog? What purpose does this particular post serve?

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