DANCING WITH THE PAIN

This year hasn't been easy for me or those closest to me. I grew up with a girl like no other. A seasoned artist of all trades and who has creativity pouring from her head to toe. My best friend was already in a valley when her childhood house burnt down. Just like that. She called me one day and took me over to see it.

She kept it moving: in between 3 jobs, 5 classes, an upcoming fashion line, and endless engagements.

Some time later, she called me and asked if I wanted to hoopdance for a video. To meet at her "old house" .

I arrived at her house, still charred from the fire, to a party with balloons, string lights, and a DJ collective. That night I watched my friend of nearly 8 years turn one of the most catastrophic life events into something beautiful that everyone could enjoy and all so that she could help out her friend from school. She made art from her tragedy.

As my mentor told me once, "pain is not meant to stop you. It is meant to guide you toward who you are meant to be. You have to dance with your pain." My best friend through it all had found a way to dance with her pain. I could see the person that she was: remarkable… and I was honored that she'd invited me to join her in her dance.

Pain comes in many shapes and sizes. It has many faces. We see it everywhere and the world is full of it. No one gets exempt and no one is untouched by it. But what I've learned from making art, from being a daughter of artists, from my friends who are artists, and what I used to tell clients at a paint-and-sip where I once worked:

"You're only an artist if you choose to be. So I don't care what the hell your job title is, we all have an artistic nerve." - pardon me for self-quoting… but real-talk.

When life gives you a mess, you can do one of three things: you can drag yourself through the mess, hurl the mess at other people, or you can make something beautiful with it that you and everyone can enjoy.

As it just so happens: life is full of mess… A lot of it. So choose wisely.

Be like my extraordinary best friend. Rare and resilient. No matter what life throws your way, have the courage, the tenacity, and the effervescence to find the artist in you, learn to dance with your pain and make beauty from the mess.

A salute to my best friend.

"WORK IS LOVE MADE VISIBLE": WORKING ON MYSELF

Good opportunities don't count if you haven't done the work. Sometimes I think so much about the goals I am working toward that I forget about the work I have to do to make achieving them worthwhile. 

We as people are so anxious to move forward, so hungry for an opportunity, so eager to close a deal, that we often forget about the responsibility that comes with it. We spoil our chances at something better by neglecting the work we have to do to be able to handle what we want. We sell ourselves short, sometimes making the wrong choice or the right one too soon.

By the time we realize our failure, we find ourselves right back at square one: facing the same problems we've always faced, feeling the same way we've always felt, wanting to make the same changes, tete a tete with the work we haven't done yet.

The work that you do on yourself is greater than any goal you could ever achieve. Like in grade school, if you neglect to do your own homework, you'll get held back in the same grade. You may get older, but you're going to keep getting the same knowledge checks until you can successfully pass them and move forward.

Each of us has a "Major" whether or not we're in school. None of us can complete it without first doing the prerequisites. 

I may be wrong but I believe that there are many wealthy people who are poor in spirit, many couples that are miserable. Whether or not we have someone to spend time with and whether or not we've built an empire, it's all irrelevant if we haven't spent time with ourselves, built on our strengths, and addressed our weaknesses.

There is a universe in each person that often goes unrecognized, because we neglect to really see ourselves and others, for whatever reason. That means all the good and all the bad. Most times, we look in the mirror and gloss right over what we see because we're taught to assess everything from the surface. We often attribute the value of someone or something to their visual appeal and rarely do we search beyond that facade.

When I was growing up, I did many self-portraits. For as many times as I looked in the mirror, I didn't actually take the time to look at myself until I was 19 years old -- living on my own, alone in a dark high rise apartment in the middle of Montreal--and I've been working ever since.

The work that you do on yourself sets the tone for all you can achieve. It is the most pain-staking, roller coaster experience. Nevertheless, how hard you work for something is a testament to the love you have for it. So work hard on yourself and don't slack off. One thing I learned as a waitress is that if you want something enough, you have to learn to work through the exhaustion. Smile even when you don't feel like it. Follow through on change. Work hard, especially on yourself.

We can't do any good for or with others if we can't see the good in ourselves. We cannot know how to love others if we don't know how to love ourselves. We cannot grow with others if we can't grow on our own. We cannot understand success unless we've taken time to truly and honestly assess our failures. We cannot be together if we've never taken the time to be alone. We can't see the world for what it is or let alone reflect the beauty of it if we have not taken time to reflect on who we are, who we've been, and who we really want to be.


 

LOVE IS CLAY

I was inspired to work with clay because ceramics has been a passion of my father's since his university days and I always admired his ability to work in a material that, for me, felt impossible. I saw pictures of his work in an old portfolio he had passed down to me. As a child, I was always impatient with the medium.  I never made time for it or I gave up easily because it was one of those things that took too much time.  The nature of clay (for a beginner) can be a little bit too unpredictable or over-complicated. 

Now, as an adult (having branched out a little more artistically), I wanted to test the limits of my artistic dexterity and hence, decided to take a ceramics class to discover my own brand in the practice, just as I have done with ink or pastel.

Clay is probably one of the hardest materials I have ever encountered. It requires steady physical and emotional labor. It is not like ink or watercolor, where you can experience complete autonomy in what you create and how you create it. That is to say, with clay, there are rules and practices that are required to make your piece structurally durable and practical. So we operate within the realm of what the medium can allow us to do.

If the clay dries, it becomes “leather hard”. This is why one must be attentive--to prevent it from drying or becoming less malleable. If your clay becomes leather hard, you will be tempted to throw it away.  But if you are really invested, you will learn to take the time you need to re-wedge it, slip it, and add moisture (but not too much moisture, as that will result in your clay becoming too fragile for the form to hold). If you fail to reconcile your clay and too much time passes, it will become “bone dry”.

You need the right amount of wedging and the right amount of moisture. Overall, you need time and consistency. My experience with clay slabs is that often, you may not get it all done in one sitting. You come back day after day and work a little to get the form you want. The way of clay is both tough and tender.

Throwing on a wheel is even more difficult as it is all about centering the clay and learning to work with it to find a form (as opposed to plying it).

My first time on the wheel was incredibly frustrating. I felt fragile, like the pitiful piece of clay I was working with. I was pressing hard, and in all the wrong areas, desperately trying to find a form or replicate the perfect image of a small vase that I held in my mind’s eye.

Sometimes, the effort that it takes to create something aesthetic can break you.  This is because we, as artists, have a tendency to hold in our mind's eye a mental blueprint of the thing we want to make.  However, sometimes or even often times, we struggle to replicate it in its exact form and entirety.

Notwithstanding, even if one finishes wedging, throwing, carving, slipping, and scoring-- even if one makes an object close to what they mapped out, there still exists the chance that it will not make it through the kiln (the oven in which clay is baked for an extended period of time before it is classified as a ceramic), as not every piece is strong enough or well-crafted enough to survive, and may shatter or melt.

Just the thought of my work being somehow shattered or melted in the kiln (or at the very least coming out with the wrong glaze design) has been a difficult feat for me to overcome in the realm of pottery. I continue my work in exploring this medium with dedication nonetheless (even though I know that I'd be devastated if I worked that hard on something, and it did not make it through the vitrification of the kiln).

Who knows if that which we work hard for, that has broken us or challenged us, will survive the kiln’s heat. It's kind of like what the Isley Brothers say in Footsteps in the Dark -- nothing we do can guarantee happiness (or perfection in this case). One might discover that the thing that they worked the hardest on might end up being more fragile than they thought, or coming out completely different than they intended.

Can we really be sure? Though I wonder if that's a real question...because it doesn't come easy and this kind of work is never immediate. For some, it takes no time at all. For others, it can take quite some time before you get what you want.

And I often question myself, if all the work I put in will be worth the product.

With careful introspection, I find that these thoughts are unavailing because ultimately, what happens during the firings is pretty much dependent on the time and work you put into solidifying the structure of your piece, which hopefully is sufficient.

Like the Isley brothers also say, "Do we really care?" ...This of course, is rhetorical: Ceramics is far too useful to give up. Take note that it is the only art we can eat off of…literally (something to consider for you fellow artists that intend to make art and “eat off of it”— as we say at Howard University in discussions about public art and profitability i.e making a living). So we keep doing it, even if we’ve had a couple failed pieces or broken vases.  

To sum up, Clay. Is. Tough. Pun-intended.

I have had days I worked for hours on a piece, only to scrap it. I have had days I set out to create something, got lost in the process, and ended up with a creation I never even pictured. There were days I missed clay firings because I was too afraid my work would not make it out the same way.  I’ve let pieces sit on my shelf bone dry because I’m too afraid I’ve allowed all my dedication to be monopolized by something structurally unsound.

How sad is it that I, like most other human beings, have found a way of over-complicating the simplest of things: by allowing my fear of shattered clay and structural imperfections to dictate whether or not I actually finish something in Ceramics class. These feelings can pollute my experience and I've realized they lack substance and productivity.

No matter what it is you’re making in Ceramics class, sometimes the purpose, the principle, and the process of how you work with what you have is just enough in and of itself. So it's really not so complicated after all. All clay is, and all it ever will be, is what you make of it.

Written with this song in mind:

ON WELDING

To weld is a powerful thing, and a dangerous thing too. I'm not very good at it but I'd like to be better.

It takes a minute to get the right formula for acetylene and oxygen. I suit up from head to toe: hat, goggles, ear protection, face mask, gloves, cowl apron, and (p)leather shoes. If I'm extra good, I wear even more protection: long sleeves and a leather jacket.

First, you turn on the acetylene; then comes the oxygen; then you adjust.

I used to insert the filler rod too early and tack on top of the two pieces of metal I was trying to weld, hoping that the layer of melted rod would hold enough for me to join the idle pieces together. That was until I learned about the "floor test". If the bond is truly strong enough, you'll be able to drop it, throw it, toss it, onto the floor and everything should hold together effortlessly. This won't happen though, unless you get the pieces hot enough to merge.

I pull out a copper coated filler rod in my left hand and I hold the flame to a thick piece of metal and wait. My favorite part is watching it turn a warm orange color with gold rims. If you hold the torch just close enough, for however long it takes, eventually the metal will thaw and sparks will begin to fly. Now just vulnerable enough to conjoin with another piece of metal. Only the surface of the other piece needs to be vulnerable enough too. When both pieces pool with orange and gold, however long it takes to hold the torch, they will spark, then you can merge them into one solid body.

"OH I BELIEVE IN YESTERDAY"- JOHN LENNON

Once upon a time when my hair was much longer and I was more impressionable, I used to sing and play some guitar. I always wrote my own stuff, and very rarely covered anything. I was rookie and to this day I don't play well. Since I love making music, despite how badly I've messed up in the past, I decided to go to vocal school.

When I was a kid, I would pretend I could sing because that's how badly I wanted to sing like the pop stars. But I knew I just couldn't. I wanted to have a voice like Janet Jackson's.

When I was 10 years old, one of my friends asked me to sing for her birthday in front of the entire school. Though I was terrified, I went up on to the stage. I sang "Yesterday" by The Beatles. Toward the end, I got so scared, I began to shake. My voice was wavering and I knew I'd always had a strange sound than what people were accustomed to. After that experience, I stopped singing for a long time.

I didn't sing again until I was 14. When I would strum on the guitar I felt like a voice was being pulled out of me. So I would hum songs around the house and write lullabies on the guitar.

Since I was small, I've been told I'm a soprano. However, I love to sing alto. When my coach went into higher octaves, I would freeze up. I sounded like a dying squirrel. She tells me over and over: "support".

One day I received an email from her. "If you want to reach the high notes all you have to do is ask your body to allow you to"

With regard to reaching high notes, I start strong and then give in. For some time I was afraid to just commit. I tried as best I could but I just couldn't. I consciously decided, on each piano key, to go for what I wanted to sing, but I kept hitting a wall.

 Disappointed that my hopes were being crushed the more I struggled with an octave, I'd stay away from my strange sound. I'd stop singing. I'd even stop playing the guitar and the zither (worried that if I ventured forward boldly, I was bound to be let down).

I would turn to other things to fill my time as I fell further and further away from my dream of one day being able to hear myself and find my voice.

For the first few weeks my teacher would tell me that she saw my body tensing and going into shock as I strained myself to reach beyond my comfort zone.

"I can't do it" I kept telling her. "I'm scared. I can't reach that high. It'll be really bad."

With time and patience I began allowing my body to fill up with air. I did many strange exercises- things I normally would think were out of my comfort zone and humiliating (if you want to get your diaghram working, try singing in a plank).  I once even closed my eyes like nobody was looking and tried to listen to what my body was telling me. Little by little I saw a path toward what I was going for and I started to accept the sound that came from me, loving and appreciating the journey of whatever shape my voice took. It was hard at first to accept that I sounded occasionally like a car screeching alongside the road, but even that part I have learned to love. 

"If you want to reach the high notes, all you have to do is ask your body to allow you to." she says. 

She also told me "when you know you love what you're singing, you won't ever have to force anything. It will just be good". Attempt to sing the impossible songs because those are the ones that will strengthen your singing dexterity, but only if they're songs you can vibe with.

Many of us keep secrets with ourselves so as not to disrupt our own self image. But I know, If I want to go anywhere with this dream, however deferred it may be I have to be honest with myself and accept where I'm at and what I need to do:

I don't want to force my sound, but I don't want to settle for the low octaves and the easy songs. Despite how much embarrassment I've had, I know there is no shame in hearing my voice screech like finger nails on a chalk board. If that's what it takes to reach the higher octaves than so be it. I'll continue on this path, pressing in all the vulnerable places until I unlock the higher notes.

(Which isn't all that bad. I have good pitch!)

I know I can reach the high notes if I just ask my body to allow me to, but people underestimate the amount of courage it takes to ask~ for anything in life.

Every time I open my lips to sing a vowel, I feel like I have sung so many sounds but am only just beginning to acknowledge my own.

I am thankful that I am making progress with this dream. At 21, 11 years since I got up on stage to sing for my friend's birthday, I am practicing "Yesterday" by the Beatles with my vocal coach (at the highest octave possible).

I take what I learn to school with me too, where I have been in a vocal jazz ensemble called "A Whole Lotta Jazz Singers". It's funny to be in the midst of discovering your voice while learning to harmonize. I'm beginning to realize that there is a fine line between hearing yourself sing and knowing your sound well enough to never lose it, even amidst the fray of others.