floating up the beach
ruffled by a north easterly,
fine intricate bubbles of air
cluster, froth to anyone else but
reminds me of Port of Spain,
the lace-like wooden fretwork of house gables and around porches,
Boissiere House, along Queen Park West,
gingerbread style fulfilling the fairy tale romance and fantasy of being home at last.
Yesterday marked 50 days of my creative sketchbook practice. 50 days of consistently turning up to the page to play and experiment.
What I’m learning is that I can trust myself to turn up for myself. I’m learning that my practice muscles can be strengthened. I’m learning that I love creating colour fields. It like what I create with visual journaling but different.
Here with these colour fields, there’s layers built up and then stripped back. Marked into. Scratched away to leave textures I like to see and feel. This practice is definitely expanding my palimpsest exploration and obsession.
I’m learning that I want this my creativity to be the main focus of my day and everything else is the add on, not the priority. Not the main meal. My creativity is my life source/force.
I’m practicing taking my creative sketchbook practice into my life. The attitudes, the risk-taking, the consistency, the trust in self and my art-making, these values and practices I’m carrying with me throughout my day, no matter who I come into contact with.
This creative sketchbook practice keeps me centred and focused on my feelings of joy and abundance. This practice keeps me present and checked in with myself, moment to moment.
On top of my visual journaling practice, this safe space of play and to {BE} me, is enough. Is more than enough to fill my day with bliss and connection. A practice that I’m finding opens up doors inside and outside of me, for me and others.
I started reading this book, hardback, a few years ago from the university library. It got recalled before I could finish it.
I was reading it after reading about how for decades the remains of two MOVE children had been kept at Penn Museum and later Princeton University illegally.
How they were using these children’s remains ( bones) in an online course for demonstration purposes as if they were nothing. Just fine specimens to illustrate a scientific point and not actually once being human and that their family was still alive and none the wiser. They thought they’d buried their children after they were bombs but piece of them were missing. And this wasn’t a mistake or oversight, the family had been lead to believe that all remains had been released to them to lay their children to rest.
I took an interest in this case along with the fascination of bone collecting/ salvaging/ pillaging to study and use as evidence of race hierarchies.
I even started a creative hybrid piece around it all as a means of trying to understand it as well as shed light in the continued extraction and exploitation of black bodies even beyond death.
I titled it:
Why are
our bones
still studied,
disputed,
displayed
and litigated?
I think I need to return to this piece.
being told, not to believe our own lying eyes
he had a permit to carry it.
he was legally exceeding his second amendment right.
he did not draw the weapon.
he was filing when they approached him.
they took his weapon from its holster.
then they shot him ten times.
this is murder.
I got out earlier than expected from my gig today. So I used the time to get to the library and pick up a book I’d spied
Black Panther: The Revolutionary Art of Emory Douglas.
I’ve seen the posters created by Emory Douglas as part of exhibitions such as in the Soul of the Nation: Art in the Age of Black Power (2017), but never before have I seen his extensive artwork all together.
This monograph edited and introduced by Sam Durant is a gem.
Along with my exploration of Paul Amos Kennedy Jr. last year (and continuing into this year too) and this dive into the artworks of Douglas gets me thinking that I might be feeling the need to create some social justice/ black power artworks myself.
Who knows. My interest has been caught and this book is feeding me with inspiration to the max.
Walking into North Shields to attend a useless ‘interview’, I gave thanks for the light after days of grey rain.
Walking and listening to music,and this song comes on and acts as a reminder.
I’ve been forgetting myself, forgetting who I come from.
What would my life feel like if I prioritised my creativity, always. That the risk taking I’m exploring in my creative sketchbook spread into my reality, my day to day life? What would my life feel like then?
Living Wild Studios 