Well, don't look then!
All this thinking about my inner critic has been useful and actually fun -- well, the journal spilling about it has been fun -- but it's gotten me thinking. You know. More like brooding, and I'm real good at that.
I brood after reading certain magazines and blogs, so I've taken something of a hiatus from them. It'd be cool to say it's my principled stand against something or other, but it's not. It's just that I start comparing myself and my work to the published artists, and... well. "Why isn't your art in there?" says that #$%^%$ inner critic.
So don't look, then! Right?
Maybe I need to take a hiatus from communing with my inner critic.
Speaking of inner critics, my friend Sarah and I had a good conversation about comparing our post-pregnancy bodies to what they used to look like. Which prompted this Spilling journal entry:
(I didn't add the word "inedible" to the tanker -- this is what the original looked like in stand-still traffic.)
I do not in any way mean to suggest my discomfort compares to people with serious weight issues or chronic mental health issues. I don't exactly have the right to sing the blues. But my inner critic must be lugging around a fun-house mirror, because he likes to show me the most unflattering view of myself whenever the mood strikes him.
Which is probably why I chose to emphasize the three-quarter circles on the tanker:
... and on the tires...
... and even the brake lights.
Ever heard the Gnarls Barkley song "Crazy" or "Flagpole Sitta" by Harvey Danger? That's kinda what's going on: I'm not sick, but I'm not well, so I might as well sing about it. Got me a good man... whoops, no blues here.
So don't look, then! Right?
Maybe I need to take a hiatus from communing with my inner critic.
Speaking of inner critics, my friend Sarah and I had a good conversation about comparing our post-pregnancy bodies to what they used to look like. Which prompted this Spilling journal entry:
Which is probably why I chose to emphasize the three-quarter circles on the tanker:
For those without mothers
I was going to post a cute little picture of The Boy, write a few words, and call it another Mother's Day. But after reading a chapter of this book...
I remembered a few things that my pastor had said in church today.
She reminded us Mother's Day is not all that happy for everyone, most obviously, for those whose mothers have died. Those words came to mind as I was reading about Henrietta Lacks, a woman whose cervical cancer cells became the first ever to survive and be replicated in a laboratory. Yet she nor her family knew or consented for her cells to be used for research. She died at age 31, leaving five children who have never seen a dime of compensation from the multi-billion-dollar industry founded on her cervical cancer cells.
Without the HeLa cells, as they're known, most scientific advances would never have happened: the polio vaccine, gene mapping, treatments for AIDS and other viruses, and fertility treatments. Think about that: A woman who died of an aggressive cervical cancer made it possible for other women to have children.
Yet most people -- including the scientists who use these cells today -- don't even know who these cells are named for. Be a little more curious than those people. Ask your local library for a copy, and learn a little about a mother who was all but forgotten.
She reminded us Mother's Day is not all that happy for everyone, most obviously, for those whose mothers have died. Those words came to mind as I was reading about Henrietta Lacks, a woman whose cervical cancer cells became the first ever to survive and be replicated in a laboratory. Yet she nor her family knew or consented for her cells to be used for research. She died at age 31, leaving five children who have never seen a dime of compensation from the multi-billion-dollar industry founded on her cervical cancer cells.
Without the HeLa cells, as they're known, most scientific advances would never have happened: the polio vaccine, gene mapping, treatments for AIDS and other viruses, and fertility treatments. Think about that: A woman who died of an aggressive cervical cancer made it possible for other women to have children.
Yet most people -- including the scientists who use these cells today -- don't even know who these cells are named for. Be a little more curious than those people. Ask your local library for a copy, and learn a little about a mother who was all but forgotten.
Spill it!
I never win nuthin', not hardly ever.
Until recently, when I won a lil' giveaway over at the Voodoo Cafe and Ricë sent me "Journal Spilling" by Diana Trout. There's a chapter specifically about identifying and taming your inner critic, a fact that I practically sprained an eyeball to re-read. I. Must. Have it! I'm hoping the exercises will help me crack the whip over that currently-nameless !@#$%^ I call my inner critic.
I started with "spilling" text on notebook paper about what my inner critic's like, moving on to "spilling" color in my notebook. Then I sketched the beginnings of a self-portrait over the text, in Caran d'Ache water-soluble crayons.
Yeah, the proportions are all wrong -- see, inner critic! -- but at least it looks something like me. Do you have any idea how hard it is to draw a nose that doesn't have an obvious bridge? Try it sometime.
Next, more inner critic text, then I scratched a few bits into the thinned-out gesso. I blended with a moist brush (whee! It's coloring and painting!) added shadowing (I. Love. Paynes Grey), then scribbled in my twist-out hairstyle. I liked the background as it was, but the book prompted me to "add some shapes." So I tried out some infinity doodles in colors I don't use often, and whaddya know.
Then it was time to pick a word, any word, to add somewhere to the portrait. So I looked in here...
... and found "enthusiastic."
Which I think describes both me and my inner critic, somewhat unfortunately.
Like I said, features waaaay out of proportion. But still, kinda cool. Thanks, Ricë and Diana.
I started with "spilling" text on notebook paper about what my inner critic's like, moving on to "spilling" color in my notebook. Then I sketched the beginnings of a self-portrait over the text, in Caran d'Ache water-soluble crayons.