Stroke
10" Circular Canvas
Acrylic with Palette Knife
2021
Three years to the day,
You collapsed on the concrete,
My world crumpled too.
Frozen in time as
Everything melted,
Teardrops melting you.
Shielded and curtained
Hiding prying onlookers,
I wanted to hide.
Oxygen tanks and
Blue uniformed staff circling,
My hand held tightly.
Drifting unconscious,
Body beginning to sag,
Please be okay, Mum.
Memories blurring
Our ambulance ride and
The waiting... waiting...
Numb and swollen eyes
Our lives have changed forever.
I stare at my shoes.
My mind is blank.
You're only forty-seven.
Stroke.
Three years to the day
You collapsed on the concrete,
My world crumpled too.
I've never left that
February afternoon.
Tragic looping fall.
Instagram Feedback:
The quality of the feedback was not the best tonight. It was only a small who chose to interact and it was from an emotional level of understanding my situation - which I greatly appreciate the support of - rather than focusing on my painting. Only one of the 4 comments noted the motion, the speed. I suppose with it being such a personal moment, people may be cautious of what to say at this time.
Reflection: Today is the third year anniversary of my mum's stroke and I wanted to commemorate the memory of who she once was as well as work through the complex feelings that I have for this day - in both a written and painted response, using my authorial practice I have adopted these past few months.
As with all of my abstract expressionist pieces, there are no distinct symbols or objects - the one recognisable link running through all of my work is the blurred mark-making and soft visual language that tries to understand my new low level of vision since retinal detachment in 2018 and coming to terms with it.
In the case of this painting, the blur depicts looking through the scene through a curtain of tears and trying to make sense that of which does not make sense - a situation so traumatic, spontaneous and unpredictable, as well as the memory fog of looking back. The colours portray my mum and I through our hair, clothes and the scene of the concrete floor and the green curtain railing that was pulled across by the staff at SuperDry in the Trafford Centre. All whirring into one big drain as I unplug my mind and switch off once again, numbing myself with whatever I can find to avoid this awful day.
Creating both poem and art really, really helped and held high value though I cried a lot and it hurt to do. It was therapeutic. It hurt to recreate this right in front of me and face it. Face my fear alone without anyone here in my apartment. I shared it with my mum over a video call and I explained to her what I had done and it gave me some relief and some peace. She cried too, though she has no memory of these events. They are entirely mine to carry for the rest of my life and it is such a heavy burden to carry.
The burden feels somewhat lighter.
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