Portraying the self can be an engaging and fascinating process,
yet extremely challenging and laborious, unsettling even,
like a journey through scorching desert sands.
Time and emotions, dreams and perceptions, ideals and visions
are probably why self portraits can be so divergent,
ranging from soft loving eyes to an engulfing darkness,
from a pensive stance to a densely troubled atmosphere.
I often take a pencil or a piece of charcoal in my hands
when my mind moves in circles
and I need to get a clear idea of something I am not able to give a name to.
I draw a self portrait to grasp wooly perceptions, buried feelings.
The results are often unexpected. And not always reassuring.
Actually, rather the opposite.
And yet. I cannot stop walking along this path.
We do not draw to be reassured, ultimately.
We draw to feel alive. Real . Authentic.
I had wings.
we have little, spread out wings when we are children.
that grow sweet, strong feathers when we find the voice of our true self, masters of our own existence.
sometimes, though, life knocks at our door and in an instant we feel our wings start to crumble.
our body may suddenly start asking for all the attention and care we are capable of. and more.
our wings wither out softly.
we are suddenly nailed to the bare earth. helpless.
only one thing is left. learning.
learning to accept.
to love our body and that immense care it is asking of us,
and to feel those withering wings are still so precious, so close to our heart.
a sentiment so real and human that slowly, very, very slowly,
we can feel intangible little feathers fluttering around our ribs again.
a winged creature scarred by silver grey stitches
and a loving, ever so loving, eye.
this is my story. my story of drawing.
my fresh, intangible growing wings.