I am painting flowers to have a feminine companion, someone with whom I can peel off the hard layers protecting my emotions, my vulnerable femininity, someone I can look in the eyes and recognise as myself. The solid contour of my body feels more changeable; a twinge more akin to decay but yet a sense of familiarity, an admission of nature. Humans are nature. Flowers. Just flowers. I know they don’t really look like flowers but they are to me. What is inside of a flower? What is inside of me? Now silence; now noise. I yearn for some silence. I wish my flowers would swallow all the clamour from my mind and transmute it into quietness... or music. When I go to bed in the evening and I close my eyes I hear harmonic sounds. I don’t know how it is possible to hear music when none is playing out loud. I listen and I barely move. Peaceful sounds. I don’t want them to go. Where are they coming from? Where do they disappear?
Now there are flowers in my mind. No flowers in my garden. No trees. I live in a rented house. I had not long ago half of a tree crown and in the afternoon its shadow but the new neighbours cut it down. Now I only have its vivid evocation of stillness and movement that still grows within me. I look at the empty space and see its green leaves. I smell its flowers. I wish I could paint it but I cannot paint nature as it is. My flowers look like the unconscious diagram of an emotional remembrance.
I sense rhythms and I see them. I read about sacred geometry. I read about many things. Have I understood life better? No, only flashes of remembrance of divinity. A flower. Breach into what is beyond my understanding. An aspect of femininity? Perhaps that too. Just flowers. I am the ground where they have fallen. Just silence. Just rhythms. Just time. I dream. I plant flowers under my skin and I watch them blooming. It doesn’t hurt when they pierce my skin. It doesn’t hurt when they dry up. I sketched flowers today. One petal after another pulled out of their natural shape, contorted like my moods, organised like my dreams. The one I wish to be; the flower, the harmony, the balance, the colour. The whole.
I planted seeds into my heart and I watched them grow until they began to bring out the distorted lines of my being. I sketched flowers yesterday, and the week before... They are ready now and I still cannot paint them. There is no noise inside them. I barely spoke these past days. But the voices inside my mind are louder and louder. Years ago I would have cut my hand instead of painting flowers. So many voices in my head swimming slowly; so many men telling me that I will not succeed in art as a woman. Have I listed? Sometimes. I cut the flowers and I tried to pull them out from my heart but the roots were knitted tight like fibres in a rug.
I am forever dreaming. I am forever waking. Now I sleep; now I wake. And now I remember. The flower doesn’t remember. It’s just a flower. Is there a past to be remembered? Do I remember or am I recreating the story over and over again?
Notes on Semioflower / 2021