I submitted my Artist Statement for the Fundy residency after an entire day of abject misery. Agonizing the overshare. Editing out no less than three puns. I handed it in without fully expressing the generational subtext of the piece and I am dripping with regret.
Seasons and life cycles shift, renewing or removing possibilities, leaving generational knowledge to find alternative means of being preserved and passed on. A simple garden, used in every conceivable way, is cultivated to sustain us. It holds space for hope, fills the waking hours and obscures what cannot grow.
How do I convey and condense the sense of absolute overwhelm evoked from using the gifts my Omama shared with me, skills she assumed would continue to be passed down, as the backbone sustaining me while I try to survive not being able to have children inside of this marriage.
How do I negotiate knowing that I am letting her down. Killing her memory. Denying her existence by ending her legacy.
A couple people I desperately love read and reread my multiple pages and shortened drafts while thoughtfully engaging me on these subjects. When it comes to suggesting edits to my fondness for run on sentences, their best bet would be to travel back to 2004 and accost me on LiveJournal before my intense love of forcing an urgent tone during long winded storytelling became a part of my soul. I have so much gratitude for those rallying around my sorrow. Who knew there’s a version of expressing yourself that deflates you entirely. I rise almost exclusively due to the tenderness of those who love me back so thoroughly. When it comes to warmth, I like to match what is given and then actively kick it up a notch to see where we can get. They’ve totally surpassed me and I so look forward to returning the favour.
I’ve spent the last few days down a Toni Morrison youtube rabbit hole. That shift in perspective helped to get me through the week.
Fresh Cut Feelings 