Every Painting Has a Story: ’63 Rising

So did I mention that I kind of entered a dream state in these early paintings, the abstract ones? Well … it’s true. Especially for this one … ’63 Rising. See, I was born in 1964, and one of the very first images, along with President John F. Kennedy’s assassination over and over (and over) again, was Buddhist monks self-immolating in protest against the Vietnam War. Crazy times. But baby sees.

So these colors on paper, in a dream state, these shapes formed, in fiery whorls, and I woke up about two thirds down, before I had added any green, sadly realizing what I had done. I mean, it’s beautiful, but it’s sad. To the left, I believe, is the spirit-wing of the monk’s soul escaping the body, leaving, to the next life, escaping the pain of the body, the flames, this life.

Below that, I added some more dream state, Vietnam, jungley colors. And I stopped. Pushed it away from myself and let her dry. The title came immediately.

I had a man who desperately wanted to buy this piece from me early on and I just insisted it wasn’t for sale. It was too early. He bought a print, irritably. We had it blown up. He was so very mad and told me I would never be successful with that kind of attitude. I just felt like I couldn’t sell off these early paintings right off the bat. I had a feeling. Whatever. I always had a special feeling for this one. It’s so dream state. Straight from childhood to now. I can see the monk.

A quiet day. Somewhat with the fever again, so the cold medicine, but up, up, tired of resting. Ran some errands on Jason’s behalf and loving the chill in the air. Chocolate tweed sweater with the shadowy sea cords and silk ombre turquoise scarf. Halloween? What? That makes no sense after Hurricane Sandy. Forget it. Ha. Come to my door you get candy but … what?

My new appointment with the vascular surgeon was like pulling teeth from a crazed nurse with a slow computer. November 12 at 2:10, Germantown. I had two blood clots, I said, that made me more important-like. At least you’re on blood thinners, she said. Right, I said. I wanted to say, I need to know when I can paint again, Hush, child, I said inside.

Bloodwork is back and 2.9 so next I’ll give on Monday. So we’re spacing them out. Yay.

Wrote my thank you notes and they’re in the outgoing mailbox. Yay. Looking forward to the holidays!

Well, I had hoped to do a little more computer work, on the blinds photos, on the framed photos section. But, alas, I’m exhausted. It happens. Heh. Snuggle in.

Very dissociated still. Must be the fever/cold. Something. Not myself still. Looking forward to feeling more IN. Again. It will come.

Tomorrow the novel writing BEGINS. Anon. Damn Skippy. You got it. Here comes The Front Porch, y’all. I feel it in me like an unborn literary child.

Billie Holiday says hello.

About amyjacksoncc

I am a professional artist, writer and musician creating from my home studio. To view my artwork, visit http://www.amyjackson.cc
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3 Responses to Every Painting Has a Story: ’63 Rising

  1. jav3d says:

    okay! So you done it again : )
    Absolutely fantastic!

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