2,5 min read
Before start to say anything about anything, wanna say, thank you for your courageous words after my first 2 short blogging newsletters. It feels warm and right to write and send. Still if you want me to stop, a whisper goes a long way.
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Just couple hours ago, I was welcomed at a home who have had one of my painting on their wall for the last 12 years.
(I took the photos below early evening with an old iPhone, as I completely forgot the host have had one of my paintings.)
They were different times then. I left my management job, searching for the path of my heart/soul/mind. I joined a theatre group, feeling free and unquestionably hopeful. They were the times of painting on my kitchen table and the floor with anything I could find. I knew this was absolutely what I wanted to do. I was an artist, a real artist with a low self-esteem.
I had a ritualistic way of painting. First, I chose the colour pallet of the background. The colours would create an emotional response, reflect the atmosphere of me. Then I started painting with pastels, oil pastels, smudging them with my fingers. It was essential to feel the paint through my skin, or vs. Let the surface to the paint feel me so they could paint me over, all over…
The third step was staring, waiting for the picture to reveal itself to the eyes of my mind. When they did, it was blazing glory. There it was only available to my eyes, not from this world, but from somewhere else. They were gifts to me and they made me feel as I was a gift to them.
A poem… Playful, exotic, fun, adventures…
Maybe my cousin had chosen the perfect name for me from her book; “The Adventures of Ayşegül”
The unseen world, which I knew existed but didn’t know how to go to. How did it look like? How did I look like in there? Was I even there? Yes, I must be… Did I have any additional powers? What were my adventures?
The stars exploded, the galaxies twirled and wrapped their skirts around me as I painted.
This was 11 years ago. So much has happened in between. I know I could have done so much more if I had some belief in me then. It took me 11 years to build the belief, to overcome my low-self esteem and to say, this is a “good” painting, GooseBumps
The question arises “what is a good painting?” Well, I mean, a painting with a soul, a painting which its owner still has an immense pleasure of looking a it and showing it to their guests. A painting which was already painted and was waiting for the artist to reveal the veil.
Some people have that thing, their hands remove the veils.
It could be You.
A friend said once, “Generally Artists don't like their old paintings”.
May be, is that so really?
I guess I like them because they are not exactly mine.
Thank You again being with me, (sloppy me) and write to me via email, twitter, instagram, whichever is easy for you.