The art of projection March 30, 2010
Posted by Liz Mead in : Matters Blue , trackbackI have a work mate who reflects back with precision the issues I need to deal with at any one time.
For instance today she reflected my need NOT to look outside for answers. She reflected my need for patience and she reflected my pursuit of perfection – in what I contribute to the world. And she led me to think about my own thought patterns.
Now there, right there , is a no-win no brainer. We’re not meant to be perfect. The whole struggle is to cope with imperfection and change. Our thought processes change accordingly.
I’ve been depressed lately – which is a habit and a neurological reality. The co-joining of low seratonin levels, palpable fear over change were mixed in with a propensity to brace for shame. In short – a recipe for misery.
My depression manifests in tears, a great weight of grey grief and a romantic desire to end it all. So many people take that fateful step without needing to journal about it, around it or into it. They simply get on with the gig. You’ve got to admire that focus.
I’m one of those “thinkers”, “waiters” or “watchers” a procrastinator waiting for external validation or a “fix”. Wondering if I can weather the storm without the medication. Wondering whether my triggered anxiety versus free-floating anxiety equates with a certain category of depresssion (aka not so bad, realy bad, suicidal etc etc).
Paint, they tell me. Put it all out on a canvas – objectify it, look at it, as if it’s a bug you can spit up and out. Of course if you paint, you’ll realise that all you see is not a remedy but a reminder; a permanent stain to perpetuate the misery because the painting is most likely to be badly executed. So not only miserable but also a bad painter.
Last week painters competing in the Archibald prize (a prize in OZ’s artworld for portraits) put themselves in such a situation.
Visitors get to guess the portrait the judges will pick. Walking around the gallery that night, despite sculling appropriate amounts of plonk, I felt detached with absolutely no idea of what I liked.
I picked one because it was a portrait of a star gazer, light tipped glasses, childish joy against a black canvas, peppered with colourful stars. Was it good – how would I know? It was the only one that “spoke” to me. Plus the character looked quirky. He was happy and hopeful.
When the winner was announced it wasn’t the one I’d chosen. An editorial about the judging process mentioned my choice as one the judges had considered. It also mentioned that their choices exampled how these judges could either get it “really right” or “really wrong”.
Gasp! degrees of right and wrong. Sigh was mine right or wrong? And why did I care? I’d come so far away from what I liked and wanted, I couldn’t even relax in my own choice. I was looking to a random stranger (probably a rejected portrait painter) to tell me. All the stars went out right there and then!
The feelings (whatever they are) had become so externalised and externalising I didn’t even know whether they were mine or just a random guess which, alas I got “right” or “wrong”.
In hindsight guessing is as valid as any other process. The feelings, the thoughts, the choices and the activities we are in charge of (ie our own), can and should be whatever they need to be. If, for neurological reasons they don’t feel like they’re standing on solid ground then settle for sand. Likewise accept that they will or can be right, wrong, black, white, shifting, paranoid, blue, black, depressed, resolved, resilient or blank.
What they are however is ours. Not much else to claim, might as well claim those. We’re all looking at stars, some of us are seeing them from the gutter (with apologies to Oscar).
No related posts.
Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.
Comments»
no comments yet - be the first?