Painting and Music

I once made an artist cry, which is by no means an accomplishment that was difficult nor fills me with pride. In fact, it was one of the most awkward encounters of my life. I was a second year journalism student blogging in my spare time to increase my chances of gainful employment and internships that did more than just "pay your dues". A lot of what I blogged about was local galleries and restaurants. One artist I interviewed was upset from my probing. After pointing out either similarities or inspiration from Beatrix Potter her eyes began to water. She said she didn't like thinking too deep about such things, and never feels comfortable explaining her art. Part of me felt embarrassed for her for being so fragile in public. Part of me sort of understands why she might be having such an emotional reaction. Art isn't just art. It's a refuge from a world that expects us to numb ourselves to function.

Christopher and I met when I was twenty one and he was freshly twenty six in our first year of journalism school. He and I grew close during the course of the year, and he felt like a platonic, brotherly friend to me. Most of our conversations really didn't have much to do with journalism. It was usually about music whether it be concerts, upcoming albums, festivals or intimate local shows. We laughed and complained together. After some lunchtime drinks on the campus pub, I sat at the edge of a chair and fell to the floor on my ass. He had a crush on Shirley Manson from the band Garbage as I recall both of us singing the words to "I'm only happy when it rains". Another Scottish chanteuse we admired was Lauren Mayberry of CHVRCHES whose lyrics invoked a sort of Joan of Arc vitality and truth seeking. She too was once a journalism student. Christopher seemed to me a bit of a tragic figure, but not a malicious one. A shoulder to cry on. A guy in his late twenties struggling with a cocaine habit with some Hunter S. Thompson or Ernest Hemmingway aspirations. He always wore a hipster's uniform of a blazer, jeans, band shirt, and sometimes topped it off with a fedora. I once told him I was thinking of selling my guitar in order to buy food. He said "Do NOT sell your guitar". I moved back in with family when I turned 22 after our year in journalism school. We kept in touch, and I genuinely missed my fellow troubled soul for all his neurosis and faults. The only hint I had from our casual pints that perhaps his feelings weren't purely platonic is when I complained about a date with a thirty something visual artist from Dublin who liked to take apart televisions. "You flirted with him, and he didn't make a move? He must be gay." I brushed it off as Portuguese machismo I was familiar with from family friends and a classmate back in my Catholic school days.

My cousin and I have embarrassed many friends and girlfriends with our love of singing in public. We upset one of his exes with Northern Irish Protestant roots on St. Patrick's day when we sang The Fields of Athenry off by heart. She nervously insisted that we stop using the Gaelic word "Slante", a toast meaning "to good health" because, as you probably can infer, she was from a Protestant family. I think my love of music came from a solid mix of jazz, alternative rock, traditional Irish ballads and blues. My repertoire ranges from Nina Simone to Donna Summer to The Strokes to Dwight Yoakam. If I can hear your soul, the genre doesn't matter really, it's still good music. One of my favorite things to do to unwind from a shitty day is paint with music. My mother used to play pop music from North Africa while washing the dishes in my childhood. I even know how to sing a song off by heart in Arabic called "Nour El Ain". From an early age I was exposed to music from all around the world. Painting while letting Spotify choose what plays next allows me to surrender control in an extremely scheduled day. It also helps to make household chores a little less miserable. When men have become much too unbearable, howling along to the Cranberries helps to soothe the pain. But, for a time, I was afraid to love music as I had before the worst night of my life happened.

The worst night of my life happened roughly seven years ago, but it might as well have been yesterday. I remember a Winnie the Pooh Bear in the corner of the room I woke up in after blacking out quite vividly but I'll be damned to say where I put my Presto card that's necessary to commute to where I need to go. As soon as I woke up I wanted to shower the stench of his body off of me. I was naked in bed, not knowing how that happened. I didn't even know where I was. Chris' painted toes felt icy against my heels. Did my friend rape me? Yes, he did. All I wanted to do was hop in a hot shower and erase the stench of him off my body. A friend of his began singing the Morris Albert classic "Feelings." Every time I hear that song it brings me back to Chris' basement apartment in the north end of the city, far and away from the downtown core.

I couldn't fully thread together the patchwork of memories of how I wound up naked in the bed. I know that I was incredibly intoxicated and snorted a white substance Chris told me to snort. Likely, it was cocaine but who knows? The last lucid thing I remember was thinking "Where am I? How do I leave? Shit, I can't leave, I'm trapped." I didn't know where I was until Chris explained we were at his place and which bus to catch to get home. I was still within the city limits at least. It took an eternity between puking in his toilet early morning, and him finally rousing from an intense hangover telling me how to get home. I thought of leaving his door unlocked but feared he'd wake up and perhaps keep me trapped in the basement for longer. I did what good victims aren't supposed to do... put my survival first before speaking to police. It took a good three years before I reported the man I thought was my friend.

Chris is well connected to the alternative music scene of my city. One of his close friends is a personality who has done work for the CBC and NPR. Our mutual classmate has done work for Global News. Another wrote for VICE. I became fearful of running into him alone. I wasn't sure how I would react. Would I flee or scream? Even to this day I'm uncertain as to how I'd respond. I stopped going to certain clubs, certain concerts, and avoid an entire genre and it's subgenres because I could see a link back to him. I wanted no reminder of him or that awful night. It took me two years before telling family and friends what had happened. For the two years I sequestered myself in silence of the event, I delved into genres by Black artists. Growing up as a person of mixed racial heritage, including ancestral links to Black US Southern culture, there's an understanding that Black music is the origin of nearly all modern white performed genres. It was easier for me to put on some Solange Knowles, Nina Simone, Beyoncé, Lianne LaHavas, Doja Cat, Normani and so many other poignant Black women creating a renaissance. In the hip-hop world of machismo and bravado, many current rising stars are women, non-binary, or queer. Slowly but surely, my music taste expanded to fusions of traditional Indigenous chants stewed in electronica with artists like Hallucination or DJ Shub. Through trauma I was beginning to discover music outside of a white male gaze and find myself in a haze of cognitive fog.

Recently, I've been able to come back to the alternative pop and rock genres. I confronted Chris after unsuccessfully trying to tell my story before a court of law. I exhaustively wrote and exhumed the emotions I buried for over half a decade since last speaking with him. I wanted him to know the toll it took on my mental health, my educational path, and financial well-being too. He seemed to not regret the actions he chose, but rather the way I felt about them. I told him I hope he is haunted for the rest of his life and never injures another woman the way he has injured me. I feel sorry for his wife, because there are likely other victims and one of these days it will get back to her what her husband has done. How many song birds have had their wings clipped?

There is no handbook on how to survive a rape. There's just a myriad of unwritten rules steeped in misogyny, racism, classism, and white supremacy. The ideal victim screams no. The ideal victim doesn't go home to have a shower washing the forensic evidence away. The ideal victim is a chaste virgin with a torn hymen. The ideal victim abstains from recreational drug and alcohol use. The ideal victim does not exist except in our imaginations.

I had begged to do an internship away from the city where Chris was much less likely to read my work and be closer with family. My journalism school refused to allow me that, as other students flew hours away to other provinces to complete theirs. I had to stay in the city so they had more content to milk from my reports. To this day, I am two credits shy of a journalism diploma. I plan to return to complete the two courses no longer afraid, and after I've completed trauma informed therapy.

Listening to the Fado music of Portugal, especially by women has also been incredibly healing. It pierces into the grief I avoided feeling for such a long time. I thought that if I had grieved for the friendship I thought I had, it was a sign of weakness or not surviving correctly. Carminho sings a song called "Meu Amor Marinheiro" that broke me into tears the first time I heard it. When I looked up the English translation of the lyrics, it felt as if I could read Chris' mind. So many things from before that night fell into place, including liking my selfies on Facebook, liking statuses more when I was unattached, and buying me beer on pub visits. I could sort of put myself in his shoes in a way. A bitter jealously or resentment of women in his psyche became much clearer to see behind the band tshirts and hipster glasses. Não olhes para as estrelas porque elas podem roubar . O verde que há nos teus olhos . Teus olhos, da cor do mar.

Painting was something that gave me a conscious escape from my anxiety and fear of being attacked again. I can lose myself for hours either creating acrylic dystopian scenes or satirical collages as a fuck you to an industry that didn't support me. Nowadays, when the mood strikes me, I let the algorithm take me on a journey as the paint strokes absorb my psychological scars. Creating gives me a path to drag myself out from the fog. Bit by bit, the more I create the further away I can transport myself from the skip in the metaphorical vinyl. Everyday my lungs breathe and my heart beats is a victory. 500 years and still drumming.

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