Self portraiture/Selfie revelations

I have been away from the blog for nearly two months.  Keeping up with any regularity, any true perspective during the crazy, heady summer months proved to be impossible for me.  Both of my children are now enrolled in "big girl" school and save the early season calendar crunching, I have time to get back to me. I'd started this post months back when a friend on Facebook tagged me in a photo of a T-shirt that said, "Hold on, I'm taking a selfie."  I do take them.  Have for years before they were called "selfies" except then I was not using my iPhone or computer to take snaps, I was staring into my face in the mirror and drawing or painting.  I did and continue to use self-portraiture as my medium of exploration.  Whether in the visual arts, writing, acting/voice work, or dance, I have used myself in the work, sometimes as the work.  I am searching, seeking, looking, longing.  I don't mean it to be indulgent, snaps and right-back-atcha winks, or reverential.  As an artist, I am trying to understand, define, relate, connect with the world. 

I had two painting professors that I adored.  One I not so secretly crushed on and the other was truly one of the best people in my life, a true, dear friend and mentor.  They both guided me to portraits and self-portraiture in Western art, classical and academic as well as modern and post-modern.  In both art history and my studio classes, I devoured the canon and sought answers in life painting, focusing on real life, true light, a strong degree of academic emphasis, still life, portraiture, figure drawing and painting, landscape.  I admired work that was imaginative, imbued with fantasy, and whimsy but felt safer and more grounded (I am, indeed, a Capricorn) with the familiar.  I can still recall the afternoon when the focus shifted and I saw myself as subject, not only as author. 

These two wonderful teachers gave me permission, even demanded that I look for something in my own gaze, in the curves of my face, in the soft angles where light hit my skin, creating shadows and depth I'd never considered.  I was a little embarrassed really to be staring at myself so long, gazing, demanding, imploring, seeking answers to all the questions, moving paint or charcoal, graphite or pastel to tell a story, maybe about me and maybe about something else, something more.  But I did prove to be an always available subject, one whom I felt comfortable tearing to pieces, putting back together, pushing and pulling the paint in ways that were not always beautiful or safe or pleasant.  I was less fearful making mistakes when using myself as model or subject, more willing to look past the surface and scratch for something else, something that transcended just that moment in time.  When I failed to find what I was looking for, I could try again and again and again, the onion skin always peeling back to show me something else.  I am always peeling back and looking for something else.

Other than adolescent punishing sessions of miserable inner dialogue in the bathroom mirror, I didn't like to gaze upon myself.  As a teenager my skin was terrible, I wore braces for years, and frankly, any therapist of mine will tell you, it took me years (or until yesterday or the day has not yet come) to find myself appealing.  Maybe it was the 80's aesthetic where I was surely not listed in the beauties table of contents or my developing self-deference to make myself smaller and more invisible, but regarding myself left me deflated.  Only in dance, where I studied more the lines I was able to make with my body did I emotionally and spiritually connect with my body, my image, myself.

And now I am here.  I take pictures of myself and make pictures of myself and reveal, little by little, something of myself in the writing--stories, blog posts, Things My French Husband Says About Me.  To me, the portraits, the selfies, the posts, the stories, the scripts, interpretation of dance choreography helps me serve the muse.  I am not the first to use the medium to explore, to discover, to share.  Western art has a endless number of self-portraits and other portraits that reveal much more beyond the beautifully handled surfaces or even intentionally challenging ones.  The cool part is being drawn by the image or the page into something greater than was expected.  For both artist and audience there is a dialogue, language, challenge or confrontation, reassurance or connection.  When I am looking, when I ask, when I cry, scream, yell, whisper to be seen or heard, it is not because I believe I am the only one to search.  It is because I believe we all are.  I don't believe, wouldn't dare think that only I have found myself in front of the mirror staring into my eyes, searching for my soul, marveling or mourning some experience in life.  That's not my intention at all.  I am saying use me.  Use me to reassure yourself, to steady yourself, to believe yourself, to react, to assault, to doubt, to question, to challenge.  To find solidarity or solitude.  To be human in all its torment and glory.

It is humbling, sometimes crippling.  It is challenging and sometimes sobering.  It is lonely and sometimes isolating.  It is uplifting and sometimes otherworldly.  Looking at myself, in my study of just a life, mine, I hope I have found a way to connect to humanity and  to the divine muse.  If you cannot find a way in yourself, use me.


(c) 2014.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.

The Meet and Greet

I was not popular in high school.  I wouldn't say that I was unpopular either, but I certainly didn't strut around the place cocksure that I was loved, admired, or led a coveted life.  Funny how so much in the adult world takes you right back to those awkward feelings in the hallways of a place where everything was learned--intellectually, emotionally, strategically, socially.  I didn't hate my experience, didn't hate being odd man out, though it was often lonely and painful, well hidden behind a smile and eccentric wardrobe.  It was the 80s and though our neighborhood was integrated, there was no strong minority presence, so minority students were more like novelty acts, not headliners. 

Unlike teens today, I didn't plot to hurt other people when I felt hurt and didn't have social media to blow up other people metaphorically with photos, miserable, cruel texts, or revealed secrets.  I always thought that becoming successful would be the best revenge.  Success being measured more by my ability to get as far away from my hometown as possible, finding a mate, making a family, and just having a level of happiness that the torture of being in high school and living at home denied me.  I feel so good about the life I have made with my hubby and people, even when I am staring into space wondering how the hell we got here, begging the heavens for some guidance, direction, help when I just don't know what turn to take. 

But we live in our own sweet bubble.  We are protected in this place because we made it and invite in only those we want.  We are a family of four and any friends, family, acquaintances, or repairmen who get close do so with great scrutiny and testing.  Can't play right?  No more play dates.  Can't speak kindly?  No more phone calls.  Bring the bad juju?  Buh-bye.  In just one situation, however, I am thrown back to the feeling I had trolling the high school hallways when I bumped into someone at the top of the heap. 

A few nights ago, I forced my husband to come home early from work and attend a parents' night at Virginie's school.  Were we not meeting her teachers, I would have scrapped the whole thing entirely, but we were.  Meeting her teachers.  And her teachers have already told us some wonderful things about our baby.  Our baby who is 3 1/2 and trying to write her own name.  Who talks non-stop with big words in big sentences.  For her and for Lily, for each other, we will do anything.  So there I found myself, with my handsome French husband with no high school hang ups because it seems that high school BS is a distinctly American problem, but with absolutely no interest in these people, meeting and greeting in the school's gymnasium while the PTA hawked books for its fundraiser and folks smiled at each other and air kissed each other and chatted about their other kids at bigger, better schools, their wonderful vacations, exciting plans for their charmed lives.  I felt myself in braces, short spiky hair, and black wrestling shoes, in a sea of glamorous sorority girls. 

I know, I know they are not all alike, not all the same.  That we all have our crosses to bear and that the truth is often hidden behind those hair flips and blindingly flashy diamonds.  Just as years later, relationships that never formed in high school have been able to develop and blossom via social media after one heck of a twentieth reunion.  But the gut feeling is still there.  The lump in the throat still lingers.  Having spent those formative years in a nearly all white school, where just by nature of being different I found myself on the outside(not to mention the secret and not so secret racist ideals exhibited by some, but certainly not all in my community), it is hard for me to fully accept that I would be welcomed at these gatherings.  Despite my attempts at self-improvement and self-acceptance, my inner teenager feels inept, awkward, and nervous in the crowd.   In nearly every crowd, as I never quite fit in with the black bourgeoisie either.  Fitting in has just not ever been my strongest suit.

But as a friend told me (another isolate, though introverted and not extroverted as I am) for the kids, for their development, for their friendships and relations, we have to make that effort even if we are afraid.  Even if we fear judgment or attack.  Even if it kills us.  And you know, though it appears that this group is "keeping up" with each other, they are not checking for me.  I am not part of the game.  We had a perfectly lovely visit to our baby girl's school, enjoyed the projects and pictures posted all around for us to see, and even met some warm individuals.  I know the projection is mine to deal with, something I work on all the time.  But consider, if I, an outgoing, open, smiling individual fears being unwelcome, excluded and nearly missed such a wonderful event, how many others without the same social tools are avoiding all contact entirely?  Who are not sending their kids to these great schools.  Are not participating in events that can advance their children's education, experiences, development.  Who feel like the dream is not meant for them.

I will meet anyone, greet anyone,  if it means that I can hand over a place in the world for my people where they feel welcomed, considered, and included.  I don't think it serves them or me to isolate ourselves.  But I also hope that no one continues to keep their group closed, hiding all the assets and casting doubt that the world is indeed the oyster of everyone and not just a chosen few.


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama:  Back to the Suburban Grind.

My first true love

John Taylor is pimping a memoir called, In the Pleasure Groove:  Love, Death, and Duran Duran.  More than twenty years ago, I stood in line, in the rain, outside of Tower Records on Newbury Street in Boston and waited with what seemed like one million other fans to see/meet/greet/kidnap the band as they promoted Big Thing.  Twenty years ago, I felt long in the tooth, shy, embarrassed that these people, this band, still pulled at my heart strings so.  So imagine my surprise when, watching Nigel John Taylor, Gemini, bass player of one of my favorite bands of all time, Duran Duran, talk about his memoir on the Today Show (the Today Show that I'd abandoned since their wack-assed hatchet job of Ann Curry) I felt my heart sink to my stomach and had tears well up in my eyes.

Hey, I just met you.  This is crazy.  No, seriously.  John Taylor was, for me, the beginning and the end in 1982 to 1984.  It's easy for me to joke and tease my young self now.  To the outsider it seems like the usual boy-band craziness-- screaming girls, undulating en masse to a band of semi-talented pin ups who in a very short span of time rake in money, fame, excess, until said screaming girls grow up and tire of them, moving on to something new.  I will argue to this day that Duran Duran was one of the most underestimated groups in terms of songwriting, musicianship, and influence, but my connection to them and to John Taylor in particular, was not related to my thesis on their musical achievements and prowess, but on the emotional quality of their songs, the imagery created in their lyrics, that they were art students, outsiders, freaks and geeks, until they weren't.  I wanted to get to the "until they weren't."

Watching John Taylor on television I was struck by how well preserved he is.  He was elegant in that laissez-faire European kind of way, articulate, charming, humble, grounded.  I appreciated his honesty and candor, while at the same time tried desperately to control my inner tween (a phrase not yet coined when I was indeed, "in between") from melting and oozing my heart down to my weakened knees.  What I longed for in 1982 when I discovered these chaps from Birmingham, was freedom, release, love, things that my twelve year old self was not experiencing.  My life was already scheduled, each day, month, year already planned.  I lived in the suburbs.  We travelled mostly to see family in other parts of the United States, primarily along the eastern seaboard.

I couldn't imagine finding a place where I could just be myself and be loved and appreciated for that.  Where I could discover myself, make mistakes, make a fool of myself without the judgment of my peers.  As one of just a handful of black or minority students in my community, I couldn't envision a place where I didn't have to explain or describe myself all the time, or worse, hide my true self for fear of being humiliated or exposed for being different.  Unless one has lived the experience of being completely outside the dominant group, it would be impossible to understand just how debilitating and lonely it can be.  Add to it an emotionally oppressive home life, where no one talked of their feelings or their passions or anything really, and a desperate New Romantic was born.

The lyrics were poetry to me.  The grooves boomed deep into my core, John Taylor's bass guiding the songs to the catchy refrains.  I may have called JT my husband or talked about how cute he was every day, but the truth was I just wanted to be included, to be part of a special group.  I pinned all my hopes on a distant star, wrote long rambling letters to them about my loneliness, certain that if John Taylor from Duran Duran could validate my existence then I truly had a place in it.  It breaks my heart to confess, and yet my longing, my need, my open, bleeding heart became more compassionate, more connected, more alive in being a fan.  I saw other countries, people from those places, became interested in poetry, art, music, and the world just by following.

And then this morning, there he was on TV.  Pensive and handsome, well dressed, accented, artistic, thoughtful, curious.  And there was I--older, wiser, married, a mother, artistic, thoughtful, curious.  In that time, John Taylor had become a contemporary.  And while my love for John Taylor is unrequited and I never received a single letter in response to my thousands sent, my feelings for the man, for the band, have not changed, though they have softened.  I have my own pensive, handsome, well dressed, accented, artistic, thoughtful, and curious European to handle.  And with him, I have dreamed about the world, traveled, made a family, opened to all possibility.  He might never have found me, had JT not paved the way for him. 


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama:  Back to the Suburban Grind.