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

Jeremiah Ray, 2019, *Untitled*, ink on paper

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.

The body

For years, I didn’t like my body. For the majority of my life, there was this sense of guilt or shame about how I looked and felt. As a result or product of, I am not sure, there was an internal struggle, a sort of emotional and spiritual dissonance within that which I can only refer to as the soul.  

The body and soul were awkward, each attempting to adjust to one another, the physical and metaphysical working their way into a partnership of sorts. In one’s formative years, this is a time of great physical and emotional/spiritual strife. From my childhood until recently, this lingering sensation of turmoil always seemed to be.  

Much of this stems from the labels and ideas thrust upon us by the society and culture into which we are born. It is hard to adjust and figure out our way through the swamp of ideals and morals, beliefs and philosophies that aren’t necessarily our own – in fact, they seldom are, as we soon discover, they are simply handed down piece by piece. In such a way, they become like the game a telephone might play as a child. One person starts a phrase, and it is passed around or down a line. The end product is usually some bastardized version of the initial statement. The awkwardness of soul and body, this feeling of discontent, eventually brings us to the point of either acceptance of the societal and cultural default settings or forces us to step out in hopes of discovering that to which we are drawn by some force and/or inner seeking. Both take courage, neither one can be deemed good or bad, right or wrong etc.  
Amid treatment, during the first rounds immediately following my diagnosis, I stepped out of the shower one morning and stood before the mirror fixed to the opposite wall. There, in front of me, was my naked body. My hair had long since fallen out on my head and my entire physical being. I looked like some prepubescent boy with the face of a middle-aged man – a face exponentially haggard by exhaustion, stress, anxiety, etc. My eyes were sunken, tired, and sad. They, my eyes, have always held every bit of my worry, fear, joy, passion, etc. I looked at myself; I stared at the body before me. I stood still and let the feelings and sensations (some of which I haven’t found a suitable word for) pulsate from my core.  

It was the first time in my entire that I felt a sort of love, admiration, and acceptance for myself – for both my body and There was an incredible level of sadness and anger, and there still is – of course. Only a fool will tell you that love ousts hate or that bravery trumps cowardice. One cannot exist without the other, and their equality and power are matched 1:1. Ultimately, about all personal decisions.

I stood there. My fingers traced various lines and ran over my bloated body, puffy from steroids and other drugs administered during active treatment. 

The orchiectomy incision looked back at me. I hadn’t looked at it since the operation and commencement of treatment. There was a part of me that didn’t want to look at it, to admit that it existed, or to deny the fact the surgery had taken place.  

Afterward, I let my fingers wander over my body, from the top of my bald head to the sunken sockets holding my eyes, over my flabby belly, and along the scar that marks the right side of my groin. I let my arms fall to my sides. I remember distinctly looking at myself – really looking at myself. I never wanted to. The body, my body, was just something. Embarrassed as I am to say this, I viewed it as some form that I had been plagued by.  

Beyond the fleshy, bloated being is where my gaze eventually fell, where it entered. How could it not? That is where all the lines I traced on my body were leading. As with the physical body, I didn’t think I was ready to honestly look or hold myself in that manner. But given the circumstances, the nand tire situation I was in, how could I not? 

I have always been curious about the soul. The notion of it as a thing, for lack of a better word, fascinates me. I see it as something continuous, an ongoing form of energy, something that doesn’t end when the physical body holding it passes. The idea of the soul as something “eternal” stems from my catholic upbringing. As with my physical body and the shame and embarrassment I felt towards/about it, I felt something similar towards my soul. My physical body might lead to sin – to enjoyment and lust. My soul was a mere breath or thought away from damnation.  Damned might I be should I enjoy my own flesh, my body – the sacred house of my soul! Damned might I be should I steer my soul on a course of my own choosing to embrace the free will I was taught so much about.

It took me nearly 3 decades to look at myself and appreciate the strength of my body and soul. It took almost 3 decades to look at myself, to behold myself, body and soul, and to give thanks.

Despite the anger and bitterness, and sadness, gratitude exists. Though I might struggle daily with my mental and emotional well-being, I’d be genuinely damned without appreciation.

The photo is a still from a performance video I made in 2012. Through my visual art I was always trying to articulate my feelings and beliefs about the physical and metaphysical. Through art I sought to examine this relationship and express that visually which alluded me in every other form of expression and means of communicating. In this video we have two beings; one that remains still, eyes closed. The other worked furiously to wrap and eventually unwrap their head with string. The being with their eyes closed is actually the one seeing, the one that is fully aware of what is going on internally and externally. The other being, the one wrapping their head with the string, is the being trying to figure out their place within everything, to literally untangle the mess and confusion in which they find themselves.

This is a memory I hold dear

I had another seizure yesterday. We’re attempting to get the medication right, and I stopped one and increased another. Yesterday, however, I wasn’t at the target dose. That’s the only logical explanation. Regardless, it has left me, as all my seizures have, physically and emotionally worn.

It happened while on a woods walk with my mother. Luckily, she was there. I had enough of a warning that I was able to indicate its arrival. She, in turn, sat me down safely… then it arrived.

I distinctly remember the cold earth underneath me when I started to come around. Though we were in a place along the path with no snow, the earth was cold and damp.

My mind was a jumbled mess, as it always is afterward, but somehow, we managed to walk back to the car. In a post-seizure state, at least for me, nothing adds up for a while.

Today, I realized what was going through my mind as I came to that damp earth: the memory of being a child of about 3 or 4. Evidently, I had asked my mother if, when the snow melted, I could play in the mud. So, I did just that. I sat in this puddle of mud, & plastered it upon my legs. The most vivid part of this is the cool dampness that soaked through the legs of my pants.

I have been told I have the memory of an elephant. Though, I think this was initially meant as an insult, as I tend not to forget things. It isn’t that I choose to remember the positive over the negative, or vice versa, I just remember things. During treatment, the traditional “chemo brain” affected certain cognitive functions, but my memory held strong. They became little islands I could swim to when the storm raged.

I believe in memories and their potent influence to transport someone.

Two years ago today I went to my dear Friend Jose and his partner’s house for dinner. I immediately felt this sense of warmth and comfort in their abode, feeling welcomed. They both exuded this; it came from them as individuals.

I love Chicago. I wish I had left on different terms and not for medical reasons, but such is life. I didn’t, however, enjoy the graduate program I was in there. I feel privileged to have studied there and received my MFA from such a school, but the program, or my home department, didn’t agree with me on many levels.

Jose was one year ahead of me in his studies there, and we became friends. He had a very older brotherly feel, and I felt comfortable sharing ideas and speaking openly about several things. This comfort, naturally, was part of the welcoming energy that greeted me for dinner that night. We sat casually in their kitchen, had delicious homemade vegetable stew, drank sparkling juice, and talked about life and art. I clearly remember walking up several flights of stairs to their condo entrance and, once at the top, wheezing and being winded. It was strange and disconcerting to be so breathless from just a few flights of stairs. The dry cough appeared a few times that night, too. A few weeks before our dinner meeting, Jose and I met at Starbucks and decided to take a little stroll after our tea and coffee. In mid/late March, Andersonville has such a nice feel — spring is just oozing out of everything and ready to pop overnight. The dry cough was present then, and I said I didn’t know what it was from, but I couldn’t get rid of it.

This nagging cough didn’t prevent us from having a lovely dinner a few weeks later. I hadn’t met Jose’s partner, now husband, but I enjoyed his honesty about art. It was a breath of fresh air to step away from the heady, overly conceptual art-school realm and just hear someone speak openly about what they thought and how they perceived the work. We talked about my thesis work, and I was excited to tell Jose how I did, eventually, decide to have this large painting I was working on split into two. I say “painting,” but it was a gestural study that consisted of ritualizing rubbing carbon dust onto linen. When we had last met I hadn’t decided if splitting it into two was the best move for it on a conceptual level. I finally opted to do so because the two, in my mind, divided time, past/present.

The division of time… I haven’t considered this phrase before for the various circumstances that would occur very soon. The following day, the most definitive division of time occurred in my life; I awoke and felt nourished by the delicious soup and conversation, happy that I had discussed my thesis work and received feedback. I was still full, literally and figuratively, from the evening. I felt positive that the end of this chapter in my life coming to a close — I was ready to move on from grad school. However, the cough was more present, and I began to feel worse as the morning went on. It was a bodily feeling, this heaviness, this burden that seemed to rest upon me. This pervasive feeling that something wasn’t right deep inside of me. Sluggishly I prepared myself for the day. Outside, the weather was glorious, and I stood for a few moments in the sun to soak it in. I envisioned the sun’s powerful rays penetrating my being and ousting whatever was causing the cough and the feeling that seemed to weigh on me. I felt even worse as I approached the red-line stop closest to my apartment. I thought it’d be best to return home and rest, to let my body be still for the day, put aside the demands of school and work, and just rest. I turned around and made it just a few paces before my body contorted in a way I had never experienced. This lack of control spread across my face and rendered me incapable of calling for help. It ran down my arm, bent my fingers inward, and took the strength from my legs, and I collapsed, then… darkness.

I hold onto memories as a means of self-preservation. I think, oftentimes, about how I would describe something in a book or how it would appear in a play, how I might see it and hear it from an outside perspective. By description and recall, there is a solidification, a movement from, perhaps, a fleeting moment in time and space to a solid foundation upon which something can grow and be constructed. How would I describe the kindness I felt entering Jose’s for dinner? How would I word the fear I felt when I had my first seizure? In remembering, in actively assisting in the solidification of memories, one can access the warmth during the cold and recreate the laughter during the flow of tears. One can nurture compassion and love for those struggling. Being sick has taught me this. I held onto memories before, well before my original diagnosis, without any real understanding as to why. Like the matriarch of the herd of elephants who leads the other members miles and miles to a certain watering hole during times of drought, memories can save us; they can nourish us.

The photo attached is a still from a performance video Jose and I collaborated on. I’ll refrain from drowning you all in the ‘heady, overly conceptual art school” BS I am happy to have left behind. The basic premise; two beings tethered by a length of rope, each takes a turn walking while the other remains the grounding center, a place of pivot. One can walk as little or as much as they wish. The other merely witnesses and rotates with them. It, for me, was about an exchange of guidance and care… it was about trust.

This is a memory I hold dear.