Pain Paintings

I would be remiss to talk about my art without first explaining what got me here. In the Fall of 2019, my life changed forever. I had an accident where I sustained an injury that didn't heal. It was the first rock to fall in my unraveling, like an avalanche on a mountain.

In a haze of pain and growing fear, it was eventually explained to me that sometimes, physical events can unleash things in the body. Autoimmune disorders that lay dormant, waiting for the right amount of personal neglect to make their appearance. Before this, I was seemingly healthy. I was young, fit, worked a physically demanding full-time job with a part-time gig on the side. I was a runner and an artist- although much of the former prevented me from acting out the latter. I had made creating a last priority on my busy list of millenial to-do. Work hard, look the part, see your friends, repeat. Sleep when you can. But that, too, was not a priority. This is the cycle that eventually broke me. My injury prolonged into a sickness that saw the world enter a global pandemic. I was hurt, almost completely alone, and my doctors appointments were being canceled due to the virus taking priority- pushing my answers further and further away.

I remained bedridden and slowly watched everything fall apart. In a subconscious effort to self soothe, I found myself at my desk- picking up where I last left off creatively. The February before I had begun a Valentine's Day project. Being my favorite day of the year (and my Mother's birthday), I made an Instagram post letting all of my friends know that I was making custom Valentines. Little portraits celebrating all the things I loved about them. Their hobbies, their pets- complete with oversized hearts filled with short, personalized catchphrases mimicking the infamous seasonal candy. Anyone who wanted one just had to send me their address and I would mail it to them. The response was bigger than the year before, and I was excited to have something purposeful to busy my mind.

What originated as a Valentine's project quickly evolved into a pandemic project, which I eventually thought of as my "pain paintings". I would create illustrations of anything and everything. Things that I found inspiring; be it ceramics, flowers, or a whimsical table setting fit for a gathering among friends that was now explicitly forbidden. I spent as many hours at my desk as my body would allow, taking my daily therapy walks down to the post office to send them off.

As my health issues snowballed, so did my art. In a particularly happy accident, I took my life-long love of collaging into my illustrations. I had made a mistake in a particular piece, and the only way to save it was by cutting it up. I carved out what I could keep, and began layering it into something new. I scanned the images into my computer, giving birth to my personal style. Slightly 3D in nature, a mix of my two favorite forms. This would be how I approached every piece thereafter. I began taking on commission work, along with my personal list of steady snail mail to friends. What started as a simple deflection for pain and fear became a growing outlet of love and positivity. I lived on the satisfaction and happiness of creating a piece, and how eager friends were to receive them in the mail.

I am acutely aware of the fact that had I not been injured, I may have never gotten sick. And had I not been sick, I likely wouldn't be creating anything at all. I believe this without a doubt. I would still be overworked, exhausted, and neglecting the things that fulfilled me- never truly living out my dreams as an artist. I had stayed in these ways for so long that I can remember having the distinct realization that I had forgotten my dreams. I didn't feel them anymore. They were lost, somewhere in my broken body and the unending pressure to perform.

Luckily, the Universe has its own way of sorting these things out. It forced me to feel everything. From the most awful pain imaginable, which turned into the darkest days- days that I did not feel would end. Or perhaps they would end without me in them. Would I know what the light feels like? The one that is so often promised at the end of a tunnel? I wasn't sure. But it was in this darkest uncertainty that I found my dreams again. With so much being taken away from me, I found light through my art. The colors comforted me, and the love from them fed me. I began to tell myself that if I could just make 1-3 people happy a day with my drawings, then I was doing okay. I was making it.

Now in the Summer light, a year and a half after my initial accident, I am taking small but firm steps towards solidifying a better future- both in health and artistically. When I stepped into what I was truly meant to be doing, I began to see the path that I needed to take to heal my body. They had gone hand in hand the entire time.

I learned that a truly creative soul cannot live life unfulfilled. Your body will break down to tell you that something is wrong. I had to find this out the hard way and climb a mountain bigger than I could have ever imagined. But having reached the peak (I hope), I can see the way down. It is a long road still, but the landscape is clear. Healing is possible, and I long for the day that I don't feel pain anymore. I want to continue to make illustrations. Colorful, happy, vibrant- celebratory of love, friendship, and beauty. I want to illustrate a book, make postcards, prints, delicate pieces that will maybe spark someone else's forgotten dreams, too.

Life is much like my art. Layered, imperfect; with emphasis on carving out and celebrating the good stuff. This only became clear to me after I almost lost it all and when I made that first 'mistake' that led me to picking up that pair of scissors.

To place in this challenge would mean a new beginning. It would mean that I could see the doctors that I need to heal, and do so in a healthy and safe environment. I could turn my art into a sustainable means of living, and that might be the most healing thing of all.

Sincerely,

Shannon Marie