MAKING SENSE OF MY HANDIWORK

After creating art that was somewhat disturbing, I begin to try to make sense of my underlying emotions.
 

Ultimately the word that summed up my feelings was disturbed with a 'felt sense' of hollowness in my 'guts.'  I found the physical evidence of impending death very confronting.  The changes in my Auntie's skin, the sunken eyes, her loss of consciousness – all evidence of  the body shutting down.  I felt shocked, horrified, helpless and distressed.  Was the feeling of disturbance a reminder of my existential pain pointing to the fact that I too -  and everyone I love - will die?  In our culture this does not sit easily.  We look for new cures so we can live longer, inject botox or have surgery to halt the signs of impending physical decline.   Death is kept at bay.  That is, until we cannot avoid it.  I remember the strong feeling of powerlessness as I watched my father die.  There was nothing I could do to prevent what I desperately did not want to happen. I felt angry at doctors who pretend they can cure everything.  When their patient  - my father - did not respond to treatment and continued to die they were uncomfortable with this perceived failure.  For me there was a lesson emanating from my fear and powerlessness  - I was forced to accept and tolerate my own existential pain.  I made a commitment to be present with my father,  to honour him and my own personal grief.  This led to intensely beautiful times of shared love, compassion and sadness.  Honest, raw but strangely uplifting.  I felt amidst the business of death that I was really alive.

The physical suffering of a dying body is traumatic to wtiness.  There were times when I hoped death would come quickly so they could  be relieved of their burdensome and ailing body.  With my father there came a point when the suffering was too great and I hoped for relief – for him and for me.  My three year old son summed it up succinctly while my dad lay dying.  He said innocently, as he sat on the edge of my bed – “ it takes a long time to die doesn’t it?”  With these thoughts came a sense of shame and guilt

My father died at 77 and while we would have liked him to be with us longer, he lived a rich life with friends, family and community.  His only regret was leaving his family.  We bought him home to die and his whole family was living alongside him for his final weeks.  His wife, grandchildren, teenagers, daughters, sons, flowers, laughter, tears, the aroma of home cooked meals , sunshine streaming through the windows and deep compassion and love surrounded him.  Likewise my 94 year old Auntie had lived  a long life and was a positive, warm, funny and loving lady.  Her family adored her and were with her in the final days.  It does not get much better than this. I was proud of my Auntie and my father who had lived a good life.

With the acceptance that my father was in the final stages of life, it opened up the opportunity for deep conversations about love, fears, regrets and hopes.  These conversations and the ability to be present for him remain in my memory (and body memories) as intensely beautiful occasions.  Moments of deep love, connection and compassion.  I felt in communion with him and the universe.  I felt whole and deeply engaged in the business of living, dying, feeling and healing.

So there you have it – a summary of why I felt disturbed.  Desperately sad, confronted by the suffering of loved ones, shamed, guilty, powerlessness, yet hoping that they will die to end the pain, and nestled in amongst these difficult emotions, blissful joy and pride emerged.   I suppose it was not surprising that this complexity of emotion was a recipe for confusion, disturbance and unease.  At the time there were no words as these conflicting feelings ran concurrently with few full stops in between.  It was just a gut feeling of something deep and disturbing. There was little time to reflect and to distill the emotional whirlpool. I can only write these words years after my father’s death and a month after my Auntie’s death.

Artmaking helped me to express this whirlpool.  Every emotion could be put into my sculpture.  Speech relies on one thing at a time and fails to show us what happens concurrently.  It was perfect for me to have an art retreat in amongst my Auntie's death.  There was a gentle holding space in the studio where I could use my hands to express my emotions and my small sculptures emerged.  People who have viewed these artworks have said they found them ‘moving but I don’t know why’ or they have looked deeply into my eyes and placed both hands on their heart.  Some people took deep breaths when they saw the figure in the cane structure as if in fright and others wanted to buy my artwork and take them home.  However at this point they are still all 'living' with me as I continue to explore my emotions through my hands. 

 

Letting my hands do the work and the resulting sculpture