When bad things happen, there's always art

“Art is man's refuge from adversity.”

~Menander

This week, I received two crushing pieces of news. Each was devastating in its own way. Each involved the loss of something that can never be replaced.

I know many people find it helpful to talk at times like this. They turn to friends and family, or seek out support groups or therapists. I find this impossible. When things get difficult, I tend to withdraw inside myself. I want to be alone so I can process my feelings and come to terms with my new reality.

And the best way I know to process feelings is to paint them. Art is a way to work through anything and everything for me - no matter what has happened in my life, art has always been there as a friend. Back before I returned to painting, I used to visit art galleries in difficult times. I loved to experience all of the different visions of life and all of the different emotions. It's a little like staring up at the night sky, where the vastness puts your problems into context.

But now that I make my own work, my studio has replaced those galleries. I don't want to look at other people's work - I want to make my own.

And so I got to work.

My storage space is full of half-finished or failed paintings. There are things that just went nowhere and there are things that seemed OK but not quite good enough. They all got packed away so I could have a fresh start. But this week, I felt like pulling them out and working on them again. I don't quite know why, but perhaps I didn't feel I could start fresh when so much emotion was roiling around my head. Or maybe I felt these poor discarded panels deserved to be loved and honoured. Whatever the reason, I dragged twelve of them all up to my studio and got to work.

I worked purely from intuition. I used colours that were closest to hand and I combined drawing and painting. I worked quickly. I did my best to avoid critiquing. I simply wanted to create, as fast as I could, and as honestly as I could. I wrote my feelings into paint with a pencil, and then with paint, and then by scratching into paint. And then I covered some of the writing up and started again.

At some stages my colours got muddy because I was moving too quickly and not taking time to wash my brush or refresh my palette. And yet I kept working anyway.

After things had dried a little, I took my sander to the surfaces and scraped into them with workman's tools. The surfaces become distressed, which felt appropriate.

I worked from 9am to 5pm, when I had to stop so I could pick Riley up from his doggy daycare. I expected to feel drained but instead I felt revitalised. I had spent a whole day feeling my feelings, instead of battling with them or burying them.

I cannot stress enough how important this is for me. I have a tendency to battle myself. I tell myself that my emotions are irrational. I explain to myself why I need to feel differently. I pep myself up. I tell myself to put my big girl pants on. In short, I constantly allow my intellectual mind to dismiss ME and MY felt experience. (My mind is a real pill, let me tell you!)

But when I'm painting, I just feel. I accept myself just as I am. I get lost in the paint and I allow it to lead my experience. I become truly present and truly embodied, and my mind knows better than to interrupt. It's like taking a lovely holiday.

I don't know if the paintings I made are finished or if they are "good." I have no idea if anyone else will like them. But that just doesn't matter. They are my gift to myself and if I am the only one who benefits, that is more than enough.

The next day, I took myself off to a vintage shop about an hour away from my house. I wanted to find something special as a keepsake. I had nothing in mind, so I simply wandered the aisles, studying everything. The walls were covered in the predictable sentimental watercolours and paintings of victorian cherubs, but then I saw it - a small watercolour study in a simple wood frame. It stood out so clearly. It was obviously painted very quickly, but equally obviously, it was painted by someone who knew what they were doing.

I reached up on tiptoes and got it down for a closer look. The artist had signed his name "Niel Bally" and the date 1996. A quick check on my phone showed that the artist is British, and has had a long and successful career as an artist and teacher. The painting was a snap at £50 and I grabbed it :)

This is the power of good art - it sings to us even in a crowded environment. It makes us feel. It serves as a repository for emotion and memory. Whether we are making or looking, art can be our best friend.