I returned to my artistic endeavors in earnest during the summer of 2020. A break-up, two weeks (or more) on furlough, and a global pandemic will do that. But what pushed me over the edge was the rash of killings across the nation of Black people going about their daily lives. Police were murdering people in their sleep, and somehow I was supposed to show up at work to carry on business as usual.
My life, my world, was anything but normal. In March realized I could have died in a tornado in Nashville and no one would have known until–when? In May I toyed with the knife of suicide, turning it over and over in my mind, wondering again if anyone would give a shit if I suddenly stopped showing up to work. Living alone in a city burning bright with injustice, who would notice another shadow in the smoke? What shape would I take in their eyes? Would I haunt their dreams at night?
Late September of that year, someone asked me about my art style and preferred medium work in. I knew what I worked with and how I went about my projects, but style? That was something I would let other people find words for. Every finished piece was simply an exhale. A displacement of air molecules that made room for the next movement of my lungs after a moment of silence. Style? I had never been accused of having that.
When I thought it over, words like surrealism and hyperreality came to mind. A form recognizable as such, but rearranged in color and line. Familiar elements foregone of symmetry and setting. I wasn’t a minimalist by any means; I infused symbolism with every color and shape I used. My paintings were saturated in high definition, and yet my artistic appetite remained unfilled. I was hungry for a way to express all that fire in my bones, all the grief driving me to keep living in the face of a world of horrors.
Despite my physical disabilities limiting how much time I spent on the floor of my art room, my mind was ever-busy with snatches of poetry and half-lines of prose that would influence the next piece. What could I render in blood on a black background like the bodies filling every news screen and feed?
As I’ve stepped again into my artist’s space this spring, I am once again creating with a certain kind of fury. Everything I do deals with grief, but not always from the same angle. I travel in spirals, not circles. I lean closer or drift further in orbit, adjusting my focus, re-establishing my purpose with every stroke of a pencil or paint brush.
Lately I’ve been pairing hearts and ribs with spiders and butterflies. Bones, flowers, fires. Ignoring the rules, because there are fewer of them than I thought. Embracing playfulness. Rejecting perfectionism. Discovering my voice all over again. Art is for laughter and love as much tears; for triumph as much as it is for processing terror.
My initial focus when I set out on this latest art spree was to ensure I had a variety of prints available in my store. Along the way, I wandered from the itinerary and found myself on a different sort of expedition. One where I savored the spring air through my open window and cherished the paint streaking my hands (and probably hidden in my hair). I leaned into the moment, and for a little while, did my best to set aside my worry about both the present and the future. I cannot heal the entire world, but I can whisper hope into everything I create.
V. H. King's Ink 