A Declaration of Interdependence

For the past few years, I’ve really been in a creative funk. I make art for Jelly Belly as my main source of income, which makes me feel lucky, and I’m grateful for the work. But prior to a few years ago, I was also making all kinds of other stuff on a regular basis, and learning new skills—everything from learning to work on a digital drawing pad, to making wearable origami ornaments, to altered books, to experimenting with what happens to fried eggs when you run them through an industrial laminator.

I don’t know where to place the blame for my loss of connection to what I once felt was a bottomless well of creative inspiration. I think it could be a lot of things—perimenopausal bullshit, addiction and recovery, partnership challenges, avoiding personal growth work, the kids getting older and living their own lives, and feeling lonely a lot of the time because I was alone a lot of the time—I have not enjoyed my own company over the past few years. I was looking through my Facebook photos the other day to try and find an image of a painting one of my college friends remembered and messaged me about.  I was shocked and saddened by seeing how many things I’ve made and have no idea where they are now, or are destroyed because I didn’t value them enough to take care of them.  I noticed it’s been about ten years since I have made it a priority to work regularly on projects I am interested in and that bring me joy and fulfillment, because I haven’t given myself permission to. I punish myself for not being good enough, not being thin, pretty, or young enough, or smart or skilled enough to deserve to do the things that make me happy. I’m so tired of it. I think I’ve paid sufficient penance for being human, and I don’t want to do it anymore. My intention is to use this space to document whatever the journey towards freedom looks like. I feel melodramatic saying it that way, but that’s what I want. I want freedom.So here goes. 

Self Portrait, 1975