The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing

5/5/17

7:34AM

Authenticity

Slept in again. Tired. Again. 

My hunch is that I’ve not been resting enough. And it’s hard as I keep pushing. 

A

How go the fish?

S

First school back from the kiln last night and I’m disappointed. I feel lost. Not sure if I should continue or abandon this series. But if I abandon not sure what to do. Definitely lost as sea as it were. 

MLG

Lost is the beginning of found at sea. 

S

Right Monkey. And failure is the beginning of success. 

MLG

And barely is the beginning of…everything. 

S

I’m not sure about form, function or color. I don’t know what I like, what I want to do, where I want to go with any of it. 

A

What feels right…what feels good. 

S

I can’t tell, A. Maybe just batting it around. Sitting in what feels like a bit of a failed place or a stuck place or a perplexed place. 

A

What has felt good about this phase so far?

S

The allowance—of the color and a new shape to explore. I see with allowance comes though some disappointment. Looseness yields sometimes things that don’t look right.

A

Which pieces don’t work for you?

S

I don’t connect well to the wall eyed pieces.

 

I don’t like the pieces with the black eyes or speckled eyes—too much going on.

Some pieces look more like birds than fish and they confuse me.

Basically, I am not sure I like the form much except for the allowance of the exploration of color. It doesn’t really resonate with me. Whether I get the form right or wrong—it’s just not grabbing me. 

I have another twenty with vertical tails—we’ll see if any of those vibe better. 

A

We need to expand and grow and growth can be a little bit painful. But..let’s give this more time…more colors…more exploration. 

S

I thought to go back to some snouted pieces and see if I can take what I’ve learned and incorporate it. 

What I liked that was doing was how clean things were looking—how there wasn’t too much decoration going on so that the essence of the piece’s personality came through. 

With all this color it’s hard to see the essences. 

A

Maybe the lesson is just that. 

S

Truth. I’m possibly ruling more out than in. 

A

Or we are developing tools for our toolbox that we may use in other ways. 

S

I thought about the two people whose work inspires me now: One’s work is all porcelain—monochromatic and gorgeous, the dialogue is all done in textures. The other’s is highly decorated—but in this pastel, breathy, fairytale way. 

Not sure of which general direction to go. 

A

Go back to previous forms?

S

I also thought about doing something completely different and drop all previous forms and focus on color only. Is there something in that for me? 

A

Not a bad idea. 

S

Yeah.

A

How was therapy?

S

Good. I honest to Not Gods feel like it was the first session of a real relationship with Teresa where she’s my actual fucking therapist and not something I’m bracing against or reacting to in unconscious ways. Maybe it’s the PTSD fading considerably from the Eileen era which allows for this moment. 

Anyway, I talked to her about the pounding of color, the insistence of it, sent her the glitter link, told her about the knocking on the door that I feel when these flickers of memory come in and out. They flit like fish, slithery fish I can't grasp a hold of. 

We talked about hypnosis and she’s going to look into it. 

Like the fish I make out of clay the conversation about the memory fish feels uncomfortable but also like progress maybe. It forces me to consider whether or not I can tolerate these memories, these memory fish, swimming in and out of my day—whether I like them—or not. It forces me to consider what it might feel like to catch them in a net—what it would feel like to be able to choose to hold them or to release them or for them to change into something else entirely. 

I thought in session about jotting down these flickering memory fish as they swim in and out of my mind. But it makes me uncomfortable. 

A

We are unsure about the fish in our mind…and in our hands too. 

S

Most definitely unsure. 

A

Allow, allow, allow. 

LATER

I begin a document I call Fishies. And it hurts nearly instantly. The first few fish that come in are mostly about, not surprisingly, color and I am taken eventually to a pair of blue eyes on a dirty face, a little boy named...Scotty.

I am calm now, or calmer than I was a few years ago. 

And I see that now may be the time to catch and keep a fish or two. 

But oh how uncomfortable these fish make me. I don't really know what to do with them. 

A

Allow, allow, allow. 

S

I seem to hate everything, A. 

A

Allow, allow, allow.