This is a wonderful feeling. To have an epiphany when your ironing your clothes for Eid in your mothers room at 2am. I remember this girl in my class and her thesis, well the paintings and the photographs not to mention other things she did outlining, creating this world her Grandmother existed in. Intimate beautifully crafted work that translated into memories of her Grandmothers old age and her fading memory because she was suffering from Alzheimer's disease (AD).
And I didn’t understand back then: why choose something so close to home when there are a ton of philosophical blubber-ings to deconstruct and swim in for endless hours behind the easel with your self centered drama? It’s so clear as to why that work stands out for me now. I did not have my family close at the time, the living at home artist means a constant battle between seclusion and inclusion of your family. That work meant creating a channel for her family to be a part of her everyday artist life. She probably got to discuss process, to communicate emotions, to create moments of exchange right at home. I envy that work almost to the point where I realize not having that everyday artistic family interaction is making my artist-self almost deadweight. I look to philosophy and I want to throw up. I look to visual/pictorial stimulation and its repetitive. Methodology feels like a thing of the past. This epiphany is not about her grandmother and what a picture perfect moment I had about her work but the fact that living at home means having to mold mental walls and meet ideas half way before they become yesterday’s status update.
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