oil pastel on paper, drunk passed out/why women drink?2015
Without her she gets made, a kind of other, malformation of sex and an assumption. She needs persona and identity of her own. How does she do that? What does she make of herself, of this, of this lot, of this lottery ticket. Out of these forms of hers she must build herself, of pieces a misty character, that makes you feel cold inside. Her reputation precedes her, irregular person, despicable, untrustworthy, she is what you heard you think you heard. You made her in your mind via your and people’s speech, exchange of ideas. Isn’t that her? Talk works like gas, it is intoxicating and vulgar. Violence taking the least effortless way. Story of her could be continued this way unless she would not act on her defense, get that mess into her own hands, clay and a piece of bone. She needs herself to oppose, resist and defend herself. Nobody else does it. Nobody else is interested in her life, her self, what it really is, what she really is like and able to do.
Her reality is not interesting to anyone but herself, she lives it, not you and makes it. She makes her life even though there is discouragement, contempt, laughter, ill talk, threat, there is so little faith in her that it is unbelievable and unbearable. To accept passively what goes on and on because others accept it, it suits them and it is normal, ill is the norm. They say there is nothing one can do for her. It is not an option to change that. That is not true. It is her exceptional quality, resistance, energy of hers that changes anything.
Evaluations, descriptions, adjectives, measurements and comparisons, faults, flaws, drawbacks, qualities we need to place someone in that tight spot to feel powerful and someone else small, qualities we have made and what are they worth, how do qualities needed change anything? Any inner strength there? We imagine, make, consume and refine ourselves as well as we can. We consume others to make ourselves. To find that strength there to do better is so little.
She is not right. There is a right way to be. Characteristics that are stated as a fact without further evidence and hearsay is all. Demonizing her to people who listen, who ask without her, without her she gets made as if she died. Character of mist that makes you feel cold inside. Is this the same world we inhabit: you speak of me but you do not confront me nor speak to me. How little respect there is, how little trust. She is what you heard as a fact. To think otherwise would be unthinkable, unthinkable pleasure, envious, joy of dragging her down speaks mountains: She is not right. She is not right. To kill is to entertain. It is to better yourself, to paint a picture of malicious woman is to draw a separating line. Pointing her out from above, from a distance, from acclaimed perfection, from accepted shameless perfection undeniable. To know her is to say what she is: she is loud, she is noisy, she is quiet, she is broken, she is tense, she is useless, she is irrational, she is shameless, she is lost, she is dead. How stupid she is. Stupidity being something very human. Not understanding why.