Going to Therapy (er, um, critiques)

My critiques in this program have been like going to therapy. Maybe not “like” going to therapy. Just going to therapy. Pretty pricey therapy sessions. 

The first time I experienced this, it knocked the wind out of me, immediately. I couldn't speak; I was stunned, grateful, overwhelmed, fighting back tears welling up from somewhere deep in my guts. It had never happened before, and I assumed it would never happen again.

The second time it happened was during a group crit. (Maybe group therapy.) At one point, listening to the observations of my peers, I felt a wave of panic rush through me and realized that I was standing naked in front of these people. “Oh, shit. They saw me.” I wanted to hide behind the clothes hanging in my studio. I hoped they didn’t notice.

In both these instances, the work evoked feelings and ideas that I had not intended to address, but were very, very real in my present experience. I didn't want anyone to see those parts of me. The second crit happened a week ago, and I am still making new discoveries and connections based on it. It has been re-playing alongside every thought and conversation and decision I have been making.

I remember, during a highly entertaining lecture, Jerry Saltz encouraging the audience to “Dance naked in public.” I always loved that quote and the bravery of that type of vulnerability, but I don’t think I fully realized the power of that simple statement until now.

What shocked me in the first crit was the immediacy of these very personal statements. “Depression is actually anger that can’t be communicated…There is something more violent about erasing existence than death.” In the second crit, it was the depth to which these issues cut. “It is so feminine, but completely non-sexual… Can the feminine exist without the female?” And in a third crit, “There is an overwhelming absence of the body.” I was floored. And it all started to make perfect sense. I thought of my mother, my grandmother, my sisters, my father, former lovers, my current boyfriend. These bodies. But mostly, I thought of myself. This body. And the bodies around me now as I walk through space.

I felt like I had shared some intimate secret with that critique group. I felt like I trusted them now. They had seen a part of me before I had seen it myself.

Spontaneously, buried things are coming to the surface. It is like my subconscious is reaching up from a dark pit and merging with my conscious thought. That sounds like Freud in an embarrassing, cheesy way.

I am making my own black paintings.