Drawing has become a therapeutic ritual to express what I cannot verbally explain. My drawings are raw like the wounds of my mind. They make me want to be as vulnerable as I can and dive into the root of my issues, stripped naked as I try to find the right clothing.
I use canvas that has been torn from a larger cloth with the edges left raw. My process entails hours dedicated to covering my hands in charcoal, dripping paint onto the floor, and immersing myself into what seems like the room from the film, A Beautiful Mind, finding connections from every moment that brought me here. The black lines I paint represent the utter agony of having a mental disorder, and I am often lost in a distorted reality that fills my mind with delusions I cannot unsee. The figures I make feel heavy to move and helplessly stuck in an abyss that is thickened with the lingering of my past.
I work large to let my entire body flow to the rhythm of the piece; my arms tired, covered in materials as if the drawing and I wrestled until both of us were spent. I burn through sketchbooks as they see me through a non-judgmental lens where I can lay down my circling thoughts and put them to rest. I place my figures in a liminal space of uncertainty, trapped inside myself, unsure of my last decision and unsure of my next. I want to change the way I used to turn a blind eye to fragile feelings. I want to be an activist to find peace in chaos.