For the majority of my life, I have relied on art in one way or another

I have found that, over the years, I have become more and more incapable of fully expressing myself with words. I fancy myself a bit of a wordsmith; however, when I re-read some of my writings, as proud as I am of them as individual pieces, I find that they lack something — some core piece I have yet to extract. When looking back at my regard my emotional and nervous breakdown, the one regarding my time in France and the subsequent “breakdown,” I wonder if that which I was trying to pull from my chest, the substance that was within me, was not a metaphor for trying endlessly to put words to my feelings and emotions. in many ways this makes sense; i didn’t understand what it was then, but i am starting to consider this. Since this occurrence, I have been presented with dreams, little fragments of this particular image. I am standing, open-mouthed, releasing only air while pulling the stringy substance from my chest.

i have relied on art throughout the years — in fact for the majority of my life i have done so. i distinctly remember one pottery class i took when i was 7 or 8 years old. We crafted simple coil pots, glazed them, and, at the next class, looked at our finished works fresh from the kiln. When I was glazing mine, I spent most of my time on the inside of the piece. I remember not paying attention to the work as a whole but working with a sort of feverish intensity on the inside. i have such a vivid memory of painting and painting, glazing and glazing the inner walls of the coil pot. i wanted the walls and, even more o the bottom, to be, upon firing, smooth, glass-like. I recall the bottom of the pot had accumulated so much glaze that a tiny puddle formed.

Of course, I look back now and place all these ideas and theories on why I was doing so, what I was trying to convey, etc. A part of me can’t help but look into this, to study this, not the actual piece; god knows it was that of a child but at my intention. Now, after 6 years of formal art training, most of which consisted of getting my ass kicked when my work was being torn apart during critique sessions, I certainly can’t help myself. The beauty of children, in terms of expressing and creating, is that they don’t drag so much theory and conceptual nonsense into it; a drawing of a dog is just that, a drawing of a dog. A coil pot with a puddle of glaze at the bottom is just that… a coil pot with a puddle of glaze at the bottom.

i wanted the inside to look good. I remember thinking this. There is no theory or conceptual bullshit attached; this is what I remember wanting to do; I was curious about how it would look post-firing. I was also interested in how it might look to others; a coil pot with a bottom rich in color (I chose a deep blue) and as smooth as glass.

Most of the time, I fumble for words. My sister and I have a back-and-forth about this; she wants me to talk, open up, and express what I need now and how said needs can be met. i am left frustrated, trying to manage these emotions upon which i can’t place a label — even though i so desperately want to! Even with my psychologist, with whom I’ve been working weekly since diagnosis, I find myself lacking the appropriate words. Often, we will spend many sessions working through emotion or thought, and then, after a laborious undertaking, we find the words needed… or, rather, some of the words needed.

More often than not, I speak too quickly. Not necessarily in terms of speed, though i did struggle with a stammer as a child as my brain was moving too fast and i couldn’t formulate the words to match the momentum. But I speak without forethought. i fire off a thought without considering how it will be taken or interpreted. This has fucked up more relationships … I cringe now at some of the things I’ve inadvertently said. They weren’t meant to be harsh or cruel, as this is never my intention; they were just unfiltered, unrefined, unpolished, rough-around-the-edges, etc., etc., in an attempt to understand someone or probe a bit to gather more information, I’ll muddle things up to the point of no repair. Equally, I hope to find the appropriate words to express my thoughts or feelings. It’s as if I’m casting a line and doing so in real-time, hoping I’ll reel something closely resembling my current state of mind, my emotions. This, too, can end poorly; going along and sharing, prattling on, seeking words on the fly … …

Then, boom!… the realization of my faux pas is crystal clear.

In my opinion, this is getting worse. i asked my neurologist about various aspects of this in terms of toxicity (multiple chemo agents specifically designed to penetrate the blood/brain barrier) and other physiological damages to the actual brain tissue itself, such as scar tissue, narcotic tissue, etc., not to mention all the psychological shifts that undoubtedly impair various parts of my overall being. His response was reassuring but slightly disheartening. “it’s no wonder you’re functioning as well as you are, jeremiah.”

These psychological (and emotional!) shifts are events, especially considering the recent experience in France and the “breakdown” I experienced there.

After the recent experiences in France, as well as all these experiences as a whole, i am left with so many emotions, almost all of which i can’t articulate. i am left with pain and other emotions i can’t share because i simply don’t have the words! I hope these portraits might, in some small way, express all that I so desperately want to share. They are already revealing so much to me; things are emerging bit by bit, line by line.

For the majority of my life, I have relied on art in one way or another. Now, more than ever, I am turning to it not only as a place of refuge during these times but to aid in my understanding of self and expressing and communicating that which is just under the surface and in need of release.

That which is already being revealed to me through my work, these ink drawings, through these portraits, are little steps toward further healing.