There is pain in insight and peace in knowing.
From birth until age 7 my father was the strongest, funniest, most energetic person I knew. Everyone liked him. He had many friends. He could fix anything. Him and my mother have been together since 8th grade. I felt favored.
On March 13th, 1993 my dad was involved in a head on collision that left him with severe traumatic brain injury. He would be bound to a wheelchair. He would need round the clock supervision for the rest of his life. He wouldn't be able to move me into my college dorm room, walk my sister down the aisle at her wedding, ride the lawn mower, cook a meal, use a cell phone and other things we often take for granted.
The worst part, most of his memory was lost and there was nothing we could do about it except love him. I wished he would walk again, and snap out of it. I wanted my dad back. But it never happened. I was so angry at God for allowing this to happen to him. I wondered. What is his purpose? Why is he still here?
As I accepted my new father.
I realized that as his core he never changed.
Although his job, car, money, and physical and mental capabilities were all stripped away, who he was at his very core was still the same beautiful person he was before the accident only in a different form. Still kind, still funny, still playful, still happy, still popular, still a beautiful light even in his circumstance.
When everything was stripped away, who are we? These pieces represent that question.
The nakedness in the art represents my father being stripped of his physical and mental capabilities. The handstands are a representation of his personality.
Bruised Bananas Are Sweeter 2. 2020. 72 in X 42 in. Stained, washed and collaged watercolor paper on watercolor paper and wood panel.
Bruised Bananas Are Sweeter 1. 2020. 72 in X 42 in. Stained, washed and collaged watercolor paper on watercolor paper and wood panel.
Bruised Bananas Are Sweeter 3. 2020. 72 in X 42 in. Stained, washed and collaged watercolor paper on watercolor paper and wood panel.
Have Tears Sometimes
Have Tears Sometimes 3. 2020. 66 by 42 in. Stained, washed and collaged watercolor paper on watercolor paper.
Have Tears Sometimes 1. 2020. 66 by 42 in. Stained, washed and collaged watercolor paper on watercolor paper.
Have Tears Sometimes 2. 2020. 66 by 42 in. Stained, washed and collaged watercolor paper on watercolor paper.
"How To Respond to Tear Gas"
The best way to describe this piece is via the words of Mumu Fresh from the song "Practice" by August Greene.
"...How much do I owe you for what's already mine?
I earned it. I work hard for every damn dime.
Only concerned with my money being brought on time.
The revolution poppin off I'm on front line.
Sometimes being a woman is like being black twice.
I gotta scream FIRE instead of RAPE and you tell me to "act nice."
Look pretty, stay slim, don't talk loud. Don't think, don't feel, don't act proud.
But if I'm at my lowest how are you at 100 percent?
God made woman and man for the balance of it."
How to Respond to Tear Gas. 2020. 71 in X 59 in.
Stained, washed and collaged watercolor paper on watercolor paper.