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  • Writer's picturematilde tomat


If I had to choose any word to describe how I feel now, that would be overwhelmed. Of course, I could have chosen pleased, proud, happy, eager for more, exhausted, puzzled, questioning, or simply happy, but I had to be honest.

I feel overwhelmed.

By the experience, the amount of work, hours, passion, energy I put in, the hours spent there in the cathedral looking at the pieces staring back at me. And overwhelmed by what is allegedly potentially happening after all this. Maybe nothing. And this is scary, too.

On Sunday, while packing everything back into the boxes, tears finally arrived. Not welcomed but the same time so necessary. I have touched, wrapped, stored safely every single piece; I sort of listened to their stories, again. I cried while I was telling them that I was sorry, I was just so so sorry. But this time I also know that it is not my fault, what has happened. This time I know that I am changing, I am facing the possibility of moving on, of not defining myself as a survivor anymore. I can foreseen myself looking forward instead of always looking back; wanting to go but feeling guilty for leaving people behind. So the sarcasm and impatience are fighting within me and I recognise a rebelliousness within me that is not branded by melancholy, but only by the desire to go, to move, to leave. To leave the heaviness of this past behind.

My house now looks like a detached department of Ikea with CONSERVATION reduced to flat packs and boxes. What am I going to do with all of this? Is there a right time when I can say comfortably that I will destroy and dispose of this exhibition?

For the time being I can barely dream. I found muscles and aches within my body and soul I didn't know I had nor that they were possible. Mood is changing and I feel an emotional itch to do more, create more, make more.

But the truth is that I do not have a technique, a style, an artistic mark that is recognisable nor that I can fall back to. I have spent the last couple of weeks trying to learn to use watercolours and the only things I gained was the knowledge that I do not know how to paint and that I feel I have nothing to give.

I am spent, like an old match not used, but damp.

Still, I would do all of this again. And again. And again.

So, I'll be out there, looking for inspirations. I will read more, I will sketch more, I will talk and listen more. I will definitely journal more. I will cry more. I will explore more. I will make, destroy and make again. I will watch movies, learn a new language, a new technique; I will lead and follow, I will make love and then bake. I will learn to like the sun while still dancing in the rain. I will go where my heart will tell me to go. I will listen to Jamie's advice more and then more and then again: it is my practice: I am free to do what I want. I will say FUCK more, and then I will walk and clean and learn to run.

Because, somewhere, along this story, I KNOW I will find my practice, my mark, my line-making, my creative-process. I will find who I am-in-the-flowing-of-My-Act-of-Being.

... in my Act of Being.

ad majora!

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