There is a thing that has always been there, a need to write it all down. The need to doodle out an inexpressible feeling. To spend time with myself in solitude and work out an idea in a hundred ways. The therapy of art journaling as a means of processing trauma and responded from the most instinctive self as written by Jenna Desmond in “Re-Assemblage of Self: Visual Art Journaling for Clients with Cumulative Trauma” (did you know you can just read therapy journals online, why would anyone have a therapist?!) is a process of “assigning pain a meaning” (Desmond, p.7) to externalize thoughts and feelings on paper, connect with authentic self, experience a range of feelings. The journal offered “therapeutic distance”(Desmond, p.6) safely processing emotions.
The commitment to know myself and work through the manifestation of that knowing in a myriad of mediums (alliteration, nice) is forever a bigger version of something I first put in a visual journal. Dishes reflective of sketches made at the top of Vermont mountains, fan-zines made of the drawing of my favorite beer spot in Corner Brook, a bronze cast head tube badge, a blanket, a jacket, the words I lace in the background of everything are omnipresent reminders of a loving dedication to my art journals recording my life and whispering back to me who I am. This practice of recording myself like an anthropologist on a mission becomes a driving force in making, and a beating tempo guiding the procession. Not to be dramatic.
Using these book making skills I combine them with other materials to make moving paper sculptures (mixtapes, hand fans, a deck of fancy cards -ahemmm-).
It is this book making- and the skill set it requires- that makes a gift for loved ones, and contains my doodles but also can make you a complicated love letter and cool you down on a hot day.
(making a book is a relationship to god)
One response to “the books”
[…] I do a little sketch, I like to do it best in a book I […]