what goes down, eventually goes up...

I was touched by the texts and calls I got concerning my well-being following my last post, Grief is a Drifting Landscape.  I forget that when I post from a place of depression or loss that it effects those who care about me. For as long as I remember Art has been how I deal with these states of being.  But I tend to forget that for what is a reasonable and necessary means of dealing with fears and anxieties for me can be distressing for loved ones. Not the least being that this dark landscape is so constant, so familiar as to be the easiest and most fertile place for me to draw inspiration. I'm not saying this is a good thing, just a known commodity. After so many decades I guess I have come to value the darker parts of my creativity over the happier.

I went back to sleep after posting Grief is a Drifting Landscape late at night. In the morning I still felt the familiar loss and confusion I have felt every morning since that day in July my husband suddenly passed away - but I also had a great amount of joy in my day. And I do. Everyday. Oddly grief has made me more aware of the wonderful, richness of life. I know grief is something that evolves and the power of it will dissipate eventually. Being bi-polar will not. So heres the truth: What goes down does come up. It always does, even when it seems impossible at the time.  So, remember that. Even if I forget it in a dark moment.

Grief is a drifting landscape...

- a perpetual longing.  I see the trees, the worn paths, but no effort gets me there. The earthiness fills my nostrils but the dirt runs through my fingers like breath.  Days, months pass and nothing changes.  2016 passes into 2017 and still... I hang the towels in different patterns.  I walk Zoe down different streets.  I am loved,  but restless and wish I were HOME.

I drink too much.

all the love in the world....

...and it was not enough.

What I know of depression, and I know it well, is love is not enough.  Loving a person with a depressive disorder is not enough.  Remember the old Al-anon phrases "unconditional love" and "co-dependency"? The relationship between the mentally ill and his/her loved ones is riddled with pitfalls, most notably one of perceived inequity.

We are not easy to live with, I know.  But neither are you, dear friends. Perhaps more than any other illness mental illness comes with an extra burden of guilt. In part because some of the ones who love us most deep down believe that if we only tried harder, got happy, took things less seriously we'd get over it. It feels like a set up to always letting people down.  That feeling of otherness eventually eats away at relationships.  It is easy to love  a mentally ill person "unconditionally" as long as you see yourself as the stronger one, the logical one. The saner one.

Let me tell you of the extraordinary feelings of exuberance, of joyful moments that the healthy mind takes for granted. To me they are gifts. These very gifts are what becomes my art. And those "un"sane moments? The unshakable dread, the suffocating anxiety, the escalating irritability that comes when words and sounds and sights converge into un-sortable chaos? They also become my art. I know these ups and downs tax the people I love. They are for better or worse woven into the fabric of me. Separating the illness, the behaviors and the core of who I am is tough work and often requires professional help. But most importantly, time in my studio. Art is the stabilizing factor that allows me to love and be loved.

summer. world cup. yes!

Heresy.  I HATE summer.  My body shuts down in the heat /humidity.

Bugs crawl over every surface and the weeds choke the landscape and sky.

If I wanted the Amazon I'd have joined the USA Outlaws.

None the less:

GO USA! I believe!

(I'll cheer from a cool, dark distance)

The Cujo of all Dust-doggies and Living in the Material World.

1.

After a year of work, my exhibit Within These Walls is finally up and all I wish to do is crawl into bed and sleep. Deeply. For a long, long time.  Preferably until the sound of a very large martini shaker convinces me its safe to awake.

But the underwear drawer is empty (way past the recycling stage), the dog hair has gathered itself into the Cujo of all dust-bunnies (dust-doggies?), the dinner table groans under the weight of unopened mail and the studio qualifies for FEMA funds.  Meanwhile new deadlines, new exhibits, more marketing, more networking, submissions, thank-you's, meetings, critiques, and "jobs" - all keep piling on.  And the clean-up and catch-up of everyday life just gets harder.  Dear God, make it go away!

2.

OK.  I washed my big girl panties.  I paid the bills, vacuumed, saw the shrink, made a cup of coffee and here I be, awake and ready to resume my place as a responsible adult and fairly mature artist.  I am finally writing a blog post.

Carol McMahon and I had the pleasure of being the subjects of a wonderful well-written piece in the current Artscope Magazine (Mar. 2013) by Meredith Cutler, Living in a Material World.  I couldn't be happier or more grateful.  Meredith writes beautifully and with the insightfulness thats comes from being a mixed media artist herself. Lately when I wonder if anyone gets my work and question why I do this insane art thing year after year, I quietly open up her article, read it and imagine a good dirty martini at my side.

Thank you Meredith and Brian G.

For the PDF click on: artscope43_MarApr13_Volp

house/home

house, 2012. 24" x 48". photo and mixed media on Sintra and wood frame

Today I read a wonderful post by Judith A. Ross, Contemplating a Mid-life Migration, regarding all the possibilities before us to find a new place to grow into the next phase of our lives. I have been thinking a lot about this myself lately. What is a home? A house? My father built the house I grew up in and my parents lived in until their deaths a couple years ago. After high school I left home and changed apartments nearly every year until I married 12 years later. Our house here in Concord has been my children's home for almost 20 years.

Yesterday my older son moved to New York City. The other son has settled in South Boston with his girlfriend.

Which comes first: the heart or the home?