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Always At My Back
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Always At My Back
oil on canvas
28 x 31.75 x .75 inches
This item is unframed but ready to hang.
(click on the link to purchase)
"It is always at my back,” he continued, “and sometimes it grows bold and its teeth are at my throat. It drags me down, and if I did not carry a shield against it, I could not get up from beneath its weight."
― Adrian Tchaikovsky, Elder Race
There are things that loom over us, lurk behind us, peer over our shoulders. And sometimes engulf us.
Tchaikovsky's quote is from a book which includes a character struggling with clinical depression. His description is haunting.
For me, the thing which is always at my back is, well, my back. My spine, to be exact.
And here's the thing about bones - they are always at your back (and your front, and your limbs, and well, in your head). I have an ongoing conversation with my own bones, osteoporotic and sinking. It goes something like this:
Tchaikovsky's quote is from a book which includes a character struggling with clinical depression. His description is haunting.
For me, the thing which is always at my back is, well, my back. My spine, to be exact.
And here's the thing about bones - they are always at your back (and your front, and your limbs, and well, in your head). I have an ongoing conversation with my own bones, osteoporotic and sinking. It goes something like this:
You doing ok in there?
Yep, just don't bend over, or look up, or look down, or lift anything, or fall down or bang into things.
Hmmm, well that is awfully restrictive! How about if I just lift this thing?
Well, ok, but tomorrow could be iffy.
Iffy?
Uh huh. You might be in some pain.
Might be?
Yes, I can never say for sure.
And why not? I mean, you are the actual bones, right?
Yes, well, I am also prone to sudden mood changes.
Yep, just don't bend over, or look up, or look down, or lift anything, or fall down or bang into things.
Hmmm, well that is awfully restrictive! How about if I just lift this thing?
Well, ok, but tomorrow could be iffy.
Iffy?
Uh huh. You might be in some pain.
Might be?
Yes, I can never say for sure.
And why not? I mean, you are the actual bones, right?
Yes, well, I am also prone to sudden mood changes.
Don't get. me wrong, I love my bones! I am grateful for their reslience and tenacity. But I sometimes delight in portraying my bones as unpredictibly monstrous. Somehow it feels better to imagine a moody monster within than a slowly crumbling structure of minerals. And my bones like being seen as sassy, anyway.
How about you, dear reader - what is always at your back?
How about you, dear reader - what is always at your back?
About the art: another paint-over of a murdered piece of art. Once more the underpainting adds texture and depth to the new work. For the new piece, a rough sketch into the new, wet background paint using a long handled brush with thinned darks. A long drying time. Then working from the faces outward, adding layer upon layer of flesh tones with pinks and oranges and reds. More drying, followed by layers of darks. The suckers on the tentacles were a blast to add layers upon layers to. Finally, the unexpected yellow embellishment on the girl's clothing. Some darkly whimsical fun!
The painting underneath the painting!
Here is the final installment of the wonderful and surprising Questions Exchange with Dotty Seiter.
My last question for Dotty, and her response in poetry:
Aperitif - when you look back at your body of work,
written and painted/drawn/scribbled/collaged
and the life you have lived making all of that, what do you see and feel?
digestif
after yoga class, the poet-artist gives her friend
a ride home and her friend says, wanna join me for lunch?
sure!, she says, and they poke
around her kitchen and cobble together
what they decide to upgrade to a “luncheon," finding
a little of this and a little of that to fill the roles
of appetizer (tortilla chips), soup (tomato juice),
salad (celery sticks), main course (tuna sandwich),
and dessert (frozen thin mint cookies),
at which point her friend says with mock solemnity
and a faux haughty voice,
would you care for an aperitif?
uh, the poet-artist hesitates,
isn't the drink at the end
of a meal called a digestif ?
which hits their funny-bones
and sets them to laughing hilariously.
still laughing, the poet-artist stands up
and asserts, what do we care what it's called!,
i don't want a drink anyway,
best digestif to my way of thinking
is a post-prandial passeggiata.
perfect, says her friend, and she adds
as they begin walking, i have a question
i've been wanting to run past you—
you've been painting for almost 12 years now, and writing
blog posts for all those years and now poetry as well.
when you look back at your body of work,
written and painted and drawn
and scribbled and collaged and wordsmithed,
and you look at the life you have lived making all of that,
what do you see and feel?
the poet-artist takes only a few steps
before she replies:
i remember in first grade having to color a mimeographed page
of circles with color words printed below them. you know, like
BROWN PURPLE GREEN, and so forth.
i began coloring, easy-peasy,
and then before i could even finish coloring
the second circle my teacher
walked by and told me i was coloring
the circles the wrong way--
the RIGHT way was to move my crayon round
and round and not
from side to side.
which i knew was just plain stupid.
the writing and painting and
drawing and scribbling and
collaging and wordsmithing i've done
for the past dozen years,
and the life i have lived making
all that art and all those poems
feels like i went back to the day
before
the mimeograph page landed on my desk
and shifted my body just one degree
in a different direction
and scribbled my way into the best
whole-arted life ever.
--dotty seiter
My last question for Dotty, and her response in poetry:
Aperitif - when you look back at your body of work,
written and painted/drawn/scribbled/collaged
and the life you have lived making all of that, what do you see and feel?
digestif
after yoga class, the poet-artist gives her friend
a ride home and her friend says, wanna join me for lunch?
sure!, she says, and they poke
around her kitchen and cobble together
what they decide to upgrade to a “luncheon," finding
a little of this and a little of that to fill the roles
of appetizer (tortilla chips), soup (tomato juice),
salad (celery sticks), main course (tuna sandwich),
and dessert (frozen thin mint cookies),
at which point her friend says with mock solemnity
and a faux haughty voice,
would you care for an aperitif?
uh, the poet-artist hesitates,
isn't the drink at the end
of a meal called a digestif ?
which hits their funny-bones
and sets them to laughing hilariously.
still laughing, the poet-artist stands up
and asserts, what do we care what it's called!,
i don't want a drink anyway,
best digestif to my way of thinking
is a post-prandial passeggiata.
perfect, says her friend, and she adds
as they begin walking, i have a question
i've been wanting to run past you—
you've been painting for almost 12 years now, and writing
blog posts for all those years and now poetry as well.
when you look back at your body of work,
written and painted and drawn
and scribbled and collaged and wordsmithed,
and you look at the life you have lived making all of that,
what do you see and feel?
the poet-artist takes only a few steps
before she replies:
i remember in first grade having to color a mimeographed page
of circles with color words printed below them. you know, like
BROWN PURPLE GREEN, and so forth.
i began coloring, easy-peasy,
and then before i could even finish coloring
the second circle my teacher
walked by and told me i was coloring
the circles the wrong way--
the RIGHT way was to move my crayon round
and round and not
from side to side.
which i knew was just plain stupid.
the writing and painting and
drawing and scribbling and
collaging and wordsmithing i've done
for the past dozen years,
and the life i have lived making
all that art and all those poems
feels like i went back to the day
before
the mimeograph page landed on my desk
and shifted my body just one degree
in a different direction
and scribbled my way into the best
whole-arted life ever.
--dotty seiter
And here is the final question from Dotty to me:
Position your hands to form a viewfinder, roughly fist sized; point it somewhere in your home—what is the/a story of what you see?
My viewfinder has been a camera lens since I was young.
Taking family photos (which I was seldom, if ever, in) was how I made a place for myself where I did not belong.
But, when you spend a lifetime taking photos, your internal viewfinder becomes well-honed.
Composition, light and shadow - now comfortable friends.
Over 58,000 photos are stored in my phone.
Another gajillion on my computer, in the cloud, on flash drives.
And yet, what I am most drawn to now are the faces around me - my husband, our dog, our crow family.
I belong here.
Position your hands to form a viewfinder, roughly fist sized; point it somewhere in your home—what is the/a story of what you see?
My viewfinder has been a camera lens since I was young.
Taking family photos (which I was seldom, if ever, in) was how I made a place for myself where I did not belong.
But, when you spend a lifetime taking photos, your internal viewfinder becomes well-honed.
Composition, light and shadow - now comfortable friends.
Over 58,000 photos are stored in my phone.
Another gajillion on my computer, in the cloud, on flash drives.
And yet, what I am most drawn to now are the faces around me - my husband, our dog, our crow family.
I belong here.
Always At My Back is brilliantly painted! The two sets of eyes are compelling. And then the wild intermingling of arms and tentacles, all in that striking limited palette. WOW. Not counting the original now-murdered painting, and not counting the time devoted to said murder, how long would you say this painting took from start to finish including all the drying time?
Your discussion of resilient, tenacious, unpredictable, moody, sassy osteoporotic bones struck a chord with me, gotta say.
And, gosh and golly, here we are at the end—well, the 'formal' 'end'—of our question exchange. What a fantastic ride we took together! The best! I envision the questions and back and forth will continue long into the future, however. In fact, here's a question (tying questions and answers and bones together): is that a tiny skull I see in the lower left corner of your viewfinder drawing??
p.s. pssst … do you want your titles to be included with your drawings?
xoxo
Bones and againg - gah! Happy to have struck a chord but also sad that it is something we gals have in common.
The 'formal end' but not THE END! YAY! I am enjoying this immensely - let's keep it going! And yes, that IS a tiny skull. A nod to our home of bones and rocks here, where skulls are randomly scattered throughout the house (though no human ones! ha ha!) and are always in the 'viewfinder'.
Feel free to include titles if you think it will add to the conversation.
Thank you so very much for sharing this meal with me, Dotty! Tasty, nourishing and ENERGIZING! xoxoxo
I think this is an inspired way to dance with self-healing.
Currently I'm reading How To Write A Damn Good Mystery by James Frey and he suggests creating diary entries for each of your characters. Having a character we create animate itself and speak...with itself. Which is novel, right?
Question: Do you think our innards are characters we create as well?
And yes, our innards are characters - do we create them? I do not know. But we DO often misunderstand them. I mean, who is born knowing how to speak the language of digestion? Or heart rhythm? Ha ha! I think I have spent a lifetime trying to learn body-speak.
I Love, Love, Love the painting! and the exquisite question exchange. I imagined a conversation with my kidney.
Me: Hey how ya doin?
Kidney: Can't talk now doing the work of two kidneys.
Me: That's rough, wish I could help.
Kidney: for starters drink more water and lay off the salt
Me: does that include potato chips?
Kidney: 'fraid so. Can't talk now gotta get back to work.
I can't wait for the next series of questions!
Thank you for enjoying the question exchange. This one following on the heels of our exchange seemed perfectly timed - I had so much fun talking with you that I was ready for whatever Dotty had in mind!
I hope the December winner (that's you, Diana D., if you're reading this!) will be willing to keep this amazement going!
Am I missing something? Wish my tired bones could do 1/4!
What we are carrying on our backs? Each day seems like there is no end to the surprises!
And yes - no end to the surprises. Perhaps we are building our reslience and distress tolerance?