V. H. King's Ink

Sovereign is the first painting where I heard my own voice and knew without a doubt that I was saying exactly what I needed to say. I worry I’ll never paint anything this good again—but then again, Sovereign isn’t the first piece I’ve said that about. What sets this piece apart is that it’s the first acrylic I painted after brain surgery. I’d played around with some watercolors, I’d picked up my markers again, but painting? On canvas? This was the first, and it felt like an only.

I didn’t go into this piece specifically thinking of it as a self-portrait. I was thinking about the anger that so often wells up within me at the world’s ills. I was reaching for something other than despair and self-hatred. Looking at the constant struggle against self-criticism and medical racism and neglect and inaccessible bureaucratic processes and a bodymind with ever-shifting limits and a weary spirit, I asked myself what could possibly be left for me to hold onto. What faith did I have, in myself or anything else, when everything I’d ever counted on had betrayed and abandoned me?

I didn’t want to stew in anger and bitterness. There are so many beautiful moments to cherish, so many good things that bring warmth and inspire courage. I can’t just throw those things away; they pop up at random, both in memory and in reality, during what often feels like a never-ending string of bad days. How could I hold my hope close to my chest? How could I center compassion for myself and the care I hoped to show others when I was perpetually exhausted?

Developing this ethos requires ongoing work. I often find myself thinking it’s nothing new that I need to learn; it’s the practice of applying the same principles of listening to what I need in the moment. It’s less of a balancing act and more like walking on Jell-o. Yeah I might fall on my face and I’m always going to feel unsteady, but I can take a minute to rest when I need it and I can try again tomorrow when I’m ready.

I couldn’t have predicted my post-surgery life: the way everything has been stripped away, the ghosts that still keep me company, the purpose sinks the teeth of its writ ever-deeper into my soul, inscribing itself into my bones. Sovereign is a depiction of that sense of purpose, that undeniable calling. It’s the courage with which I hope to face my days. It’s the poise and presence with which I aspire to move. It reflects a person grounded in their personhood and purpose and the dignity of all they dare to be—knowing full well the agony of the world’s beauty coexists alongside unspeakable atrocity because somehow both things are always happening at the same time all around us.

Sovereign is the storm and the peace within, the perpetuated harm and the perpetual healing. Will I ever paint anything this good again? That’s the wrong question. Will I bring the spirit of Sovereign to each new piece, to every poem, to future collections? I certainly hope so. I pray I will, strengthened and sustained by the knowledge that I am already whole and always worthy, regardless of what messages bombard me.

When I can’t carry the torch high, when I’d rather bare my teeth at the world, when I am drowning in perceived/relative obscurity, when I am devastated by loneliness: I will still know there is a crown to carry. You won’t see it on my head, there will be no cape around my shoulders, but in all my disaster and distress, I trust that I have been given this gift for a reason.