Breach

We spend the rainy afternoon soaking in the paintings of surrealist Rene Magritte, puzzled by most of his mysterious canvases, his early work especially, filled with faces exhibiting a sorrowful pallor, lacking all expression.  Some pieces are more than disturbing, causing us to ponder the psyche of this immensely creative individual.

 

As I put my own art out into the world, I’m reminded acutely of how the desire to be intensely real can cause us to cross an imaginary line, expressing a startling rawness that in our own daring to voice we’ve somehow missed the glaring reality many are uncomfortable accepting all we have to say. Maybe these are feelings, ideas or concepts better left under wraps, but in our relentless quest to connect with those who view our work, we can’t help but put our innermost desires out there, in hopes another will see herself in our expression and maybe feel less alone in this place we all inhabit where such little tolerance exists for the blatant admission of frailty, yearning and vulnerability.

Art is nothing if it’s not experimentation.  We push our limits, trialing a multitude of mediums and materials, theories and themes in search of the manifestation of our own truth at last resonating with the world.  Along the way we syphon intrepidness, releasing work to the scrutiny of outsiders.  It feels so bold and exhilarating when it’s finally out there; years of squelching put aside for now we’re able to say out loud “I’m an artist.”

 

So it’s hard not to be embarrassed when we look back at our earlier work, a technique or voice we once viewed with such pride, we’re now seeing differently wishing we’d abandoned sooner.  To absorb it feels underdone, gritty, rough and unpolished.  Who isn’t uncomfortable with her style in its nascence?  Yet it can’t be helped; we’ve lived more life, met new people, learned more about ourselves, all the while honing our craft, not realizing sometimes how much we’ve changed until we’re compelled to look back in time.

It doesn’t surprise me that by the end of the Magritte exhibit we find more we can relate to, pieces we can appreciate and maybe even explain.  We can admire the quality of this man’s painting, now an artist who had come into his own.  I can’t help but think Magritte, if he were able to take in this showing, might wonder what he was thinking with his early work.  Would he be able to accept his own evolution, the humbling and sometimes unsettling missteps we take on this journey to be who we are?

 

We all see the world through the oculus of ourselves. The degree of comfort we feel expressing who we are ebbs and flows. There are times we retreat, putting so little of ourselves out there it’s hard for anyone, including us, to know who we are, and there are times we’re on the other extreme maybe revealing more than is good for us, forgetting how our brazenness impacts those we care for deeply. For me, as I continue to refine my voice, I’m trying to temper and accept both my rashness and my reticence; the words I’m meant to say are somewhere in between.