Blog Post 09/24

Watching a name erode taking another form is strange, sad, distant. Sitting in class I have to retrain my body not to react to my old name. My head will jerk to the sound of the "Thom" hitting the back of the throat and the "as" slipping past the tongue. My new name is soft and comforting. "Hannah" says the friend.

The paintings are weird. Still too new to absorb my feelings or comprehension for what they are or even what they're doing. One makes my skin crawl and the other makes me uncomfortable. Comfortable would be falling back into the folds of image, copying it as it reads. I haven't done enough to know what is finished or good. One looks "finished" but is only line work. I don't know what I want of these paintings.

My work is about my home. The setting back home and the physical one in Fayetteville. While being between a transitioning body and a static relationship with my family I've yet to find comfortable ground. The painting that makes my skin crawl has the yellow orange in the corner that won't go away. It's a rash that festers, blistering in the heat. But the painting is making my skin crawl. So it will sit until I know what to do with this thing.

These paintings are not therapy. Maybe they are and I'm not a good patient.

The Yellow Thing

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