The Burden, The Privilege of Vulnerability
Crumbs and clues kept preconceived notions at a distance.
A vintage industrial wooden spool hangs from the ceiling. Thick gray yarn wraps around it, looping to the ceiling. Around and below the spool, the taut thread knots to my grandmother’s floral fabric. A light cream background is speckled with small red and blue flowers and green leaves.
The fabric descends through seven small embroidery hoops to create a cylindrical sleeve. At the bottom is a gripped hand, with icy blue nail polish rendered in felt. It holds another knotted arm.
This one is stuffed and squishable, looping within itself. This arm’s fabric is also floral, but more juvenile. Large cartoon flowers and stems repeat across the white fabric. The hand drags on the floor and collects and smears dirt.
The large arm on the floor was originally worn around my neck as a kind of trauma indicator. I have taken portraits of myself wearing it, titling these photographs, On a Good Day it is Floral Patterned and Hangs Between My Legs. The “it” is the impact of my traumatic experiences. I made this work in my first year of graduate school and had no idea that I had not yet experienced the worst thing I hopefully ever will.
I made this assemblage while trying to confront my own frustration and fear. I just started talking about my experiences to instructors and peers, and I admittedly floundered for the right words. Even through my stumbling, I hoped that the sincerity of the attempt would communicate my own care and drive. Many times I was met with robotic inquisition. Now I realize what I wanted was recognition. That I went through something hard and talking about it was hard. Instead, I received bizarre feedback. My work was “too personal.”
I must have been the one making a mistake. It was the language I was using. I shifted to obscurity and trauma and found radically different engagement with my work. This meant never disclosing the already vague details. The work itself did not change. I was still on the same path, but my language rested in obscurity. Crumbs and clues kept preconceived notions at a distance. No one feels the need to say, “I’m sorry that happened to you,” if they don’t know what happened. I no longer felt the pressure to expect, or even want, that response.
This shift and the need to make it were frustrating experiences. I wanted to talk about what it felt like to splay my inner life out through sculpture only to be met with unfeeling, and sometimes disbelieving, responses. It felt like a burden. I believe it to be a necessary burden. I believe making and sharing artwork and having conversations can shift perspective and, ideally, inspire some kind of incremental change. But some of the conversations I had did not engage with impact, emotional or psychological. Not even the impact on me, the whole person standing in front of them.
I discussed this with my then-partner. He told me that talking about it was a privilege. This response made me feel unheard like I was being checked. And I was. And he was right. This—artmaking, graduate school, freedom to talk—is a privilege. Bracing for the responses and lack of emotional engagement is a burden, too. Both ideas are fair and accurate.
From the beginning, I wanted to be direct and precise about my experiences.
But that was taken from me too.