Issara Simone Edwards's Blog, page 17

The Moon.

Oceans and Dust

‘Hekat’ Print available on Society6 https://society6.com/product/the-oracle-series-hekat_print?sku=s6-20986726p4a1v45

I sink into deep water and feel it form around me.

It embraces me as my body curls within it.

Both supported and free, I choose to hold, to linger,

To float as I sink deeper,

Away from the surface.

Cocooned and safe, the blood forms around me, a soft solidity.

I am myself, the water and the blood flowing from within,

Around me, cocooning and shielding.

This is the original self, the wild self,

The touch of blood, the knowledge within it.

The red gloss, my prints patterning through, splintering apart,

Mapping the maze.

The labyrinth of illusion, of beauty,

Of external expression, external self.

There’s a crescent in my womb, a horned bowl of bronze,

The caged bull that circles,

Embracing the walls for fear of getting lost in the dark.

The horned bowl drips crimson blood, golden blood, moon blood,

And…

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The Oracle Series: Hekat.

[image error] ‘Hekat’ Print available on Society6 https://society6.com/product/the-oracle-series-hekat_print?sku=s6-20986726p4a1v45

“I am Hekate, Protector of all who are shunned and oppressed. Guide and mother to those lost to the fringes and forgotten. I am the wild dog, the bark in the night. I am the serpent, coiled and waiting to strike. I am the Goddess of Magick and night things, the patron of witches, ghosts, the dead and the moon. I hold power over heaven, over sea and earth. I am the crossroads, the inbetween, the path yet to be walked. I am the torch, I am the eye, I am the cupped hand. I am the triple made one. I am the youth, I am the mother, I am the ancient. I am the    past, the present, the future. I am Hekate.”

[Greek pantheon, goddess of witchcraft, the underworld and crossroads. Her symbols are the cross keys, the triple moon and the strophalos. She is known as the triple goddess, maiden, mother and crone. This void painting however uses the Egyptian variant of the name, invoking her role as the Mistress of Births.]

(23.12.2020)

Yesterday I finished a painting I’d been working on for a few days. ‘Hekat’. It’s simple, but a lot of work, effort, carefulness and love went into it. It was an experiment, like everything I do is. I approached it differently than I have previous works and although I can see my hand in it, it’s different from anything I’ve done previously… The painting is of Hekate, who is a Greek Goddess but… and… yeah. It’s not all of what I get when I look at the completed work. 

I’ve recently been reading, researching shamanism, Native American culture, and I’m seeing the influence of that absorption in the painting. I look at it and the first thing I see is horned cow, horned goddess, riding in with the moon to fuck up your day. She’s power and life and you better bow down. The second thing I see is wisdom, benevolence, she’s coming to open the door, show you the way, offer wisdom, insight, show you the path to higher knowledge. And I didn’t want to write this. For me, one of the points of void paintings is not putting my intention, my thoughts into it so that a potential viewer can see what they need to see in it, or see without me telling them what to see. It’s the idea that art should be able to stand in it’s own. Am I wrong?

(25.01.2021)

Who is ‘Hekat’? She’s the child, the maiden, she’s just entering adulthood, just entering her fullness. She has been given the key by her elders and is ready to enter the mysteries, with all the fiery, bullheadedness of youth. 

Every time I look at this painting it reveals more to me. Clothed in raven feathers, clothed in darkness, clothed in night, she emerges from the void as light, both a part of it and in the process of separating herself from it.

Print is now available on Society6, click on image for link.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ is also available on Amazon.

The Absence of Feeling When Feeling.

Friday 22nd of February 2019

There’s a gulf between being who I am , being who I want to be and being myself. In a sort of post modern context that makes sense. The divide that’s occurred within me, the person that I am within and the person that I’ve become to please others. Avoid the disappointment, the pity, the resentment, the anger, the hatred in others, the abuse from others. But I’m coming to accept that my self-preservativing pleasing of others, catering to others emotions and needs, their subtle ques and ticks, is doing the opposite. The more I worry about offending someone else by speaking, wanting, the more I defer to their wants and ignore my own, the more I’m losing people. But I’ve spent so long doing it, it’s hard to change, to reprogram the brain.

I can’t ask for help unless it helps someone else. I can’t go to a store and buy cake unless someone else wants cake, otherwise, what’s the point of buying cake? I can’t put on the kettle to make a cup of tea if no one else is having one, I’ll just heat up a little water in my cup. These are little things, but they apply to big things too.

Be small, be quiet, don’t draw attention. Don’t say how you feel, you’re emotions will hurt someone. Don’t say what you want, your desires will put someone out. Don’t want, there’s no point anymore. How do I undo all that?

Little things can send a person right back to the start.

So, my dad has cancer and his diagnosis has had no effect on me. Socially, morally, I should feel something because he’s genetically related to me. But honestly, selfishly, both my parents have cancer, and I’m worried what that means for my future.

When my mother was diagnosed, I had to force myself into a reality that might not contain her. It effected me, it broke pieces of me away. But my father? Nothing. His absence from my life will have no impact because he’s already not in my life. Because of that, he could die tomorrow and it would mean nothing to me. He’s like an ex who says they still have feelings for you after you’ve spent years getting used to the fact they don’t want you in their life. He can’t just turn up, say he’s sick and force it to matter to me, not now, not after all this time. But in feeling like this, socially, morally, I know I’m now the bad guy. Yet, I also can’t force myself to feel something for him now just because he’s sick. A person can’t force emotion, and pretending is just … cruel.

You know what, my true self is the sames as everyone’s true self. It’s a self based on honesty, genuine desires and emotions, none of this post-modernist glamouring, deluding. I want to be done with it, completely.

‘The Murder of Miss O’, a novella, available now…

Realities.

Saturday 16th of February 2019

Writing concretes the world. It turns it into something. Without writing the world is this ephemeral thing that keeps coming and going. Reality is more than subjective, it’s a river. And if you can never step into the same river twice, maybe the same goes for reality, or realities, and I can’t keep up with them anymore. But sometimes, I feel like keeping up with them is all I have. If I don’t keep up with what reality I’m in then it feels too much like being lost, just adrift, completely disconnected from everything. It’s lonely.

Everyone’s in there own world tonight, everyone’s in there own world most nights. Mother’s on her tablet, sister’s on her laptop. I’m alone and separate. I have to find my own world to be in. So, a dark blue notebook and a yellow pencil that says: ‘Let’s make it happen’ it is.

I imagine a great big forest around me, and it springs up just like that. It’s night, the stars are spread thin in the sky. There’s a light up there too, but I can’t see the moon through the trees, but I know it’s up there somewhere. I’m safe here, the forest is magic, only foxes live here, small ones with the souls of gods.

I walk along a riverbank, hearing the water flow. There’s a house on the other side, a small hut with smoke coming from the chimney. It looks cozy, like a home. I keep walking, watching the moon peek out, taking little glances at me before hiding back behind the leafy silhouette.

Let’s switch to a different reality.

Folding clothes, Marie Kondo style. I have the time in this reality, it gives me something to do. It does, however, make my draws look empty. Maybe I should buy more clothes. Wait, am I switching again?

There is no lack, just an abundance of space, of time, of commerce in the space of money. There’s so much of everything in this reality, in all realities. I get to choose what I’m in excess of.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ available from booky places, including Kindle.

Shampoo

Wednesday 13th of February 2019

I don’t know what the date is today. I know it’s a Wednesday. I’ll find out after this and fill in the blanks.

I haven’t written anything in a month. This diary and some notes have been my only outlet, until yesterday.

As an experiment I wrote a treatment, which is a prelude to a script, I learnt that. Anyway, we’ll see what happens with it.

I was going to write about how getting this tattoo has inspired a routine of self-care. It’s been necessary to put coconut oil on it four times a day, cover it at night, so my sheets don’t aggravate it. That’s self-care, right?

For years, getting out of bed has been more obligation than purpose. Getting dressed is tedious. Cutting my nails, washing my hair, cleaning my face, they’re just things I’m supposed to do, will get around to do, will constantly neglect to do.

But my arm is sore, it needs my attention, and I’m giving it. It seems small, but it isn’t. My hair needs washing and guess what? I bought shampoo. It’s a start.

[I hate the word ‘Queen’, it sounds so diminished. I want to be a King, not a Queen. King of all I survey. Rightful ruler. Listened to. Respected.] – Off topic, mini rant.

It’s the 13th. It’s Valentine’s day tomorrow. I’m thinking… nice dinner, desert, homemade heart cookies and something funny to watch. An act of self-care, right?

‘The Murder of Miss O’ available from booky places…

Virgin Coconut Oil, but not the raw stuff because I couldn’t find it.

I got my first tattoo on a whim. Maybe that’s why looking down at my arm and seeing something new, something unexpected hit so hard. I hadn’t imagined it before hand, I didn’t spend a year thinking it over, I didn’t design it myself.

It was the 2nd of December 2016 and I woke up in a place beyond depression. It was that ‘I can’t do this anymore’ place, that ‘it’s time to end it’ place.

So, after crying for an hour I got dressed, got on a bus and booked an appointment at InkedUp. Then went for lunch at The Crazy Fox with my sister.

I wrote, previously, that I felt more myself with this new tattoo, maybe it was the act of getting it. I went to the tattoo place by myself, which may not seem like the biggest of accomplishments, but anxiety is a bitch who doesn’t discriminate.

Since then, I’ve noticed subtle differences. I’ve gotten a little demanding. I’m asking for what I want. I’m allowed to ask for what I want. I wanted another tattoo; I got another tattoo. I’m allowed to ask for what I want.

A few moments ago, I needed to go to the shop. I didn’t talk myself out of it, I didn’t have a mini panic attack. I needed to go to the shop, so I went.

I got a tattoo, by myself. I did that. Those other things are small now.

[ July 2017: Research.

The Sankofa is an Adinka symbol, a representation of concepts or aphorisms. ‘San’ means to return, ‘ko’, to go, ‘fa’, to fetch, to seek, to take. It’s associated with the proverb: ‘It’s not wrong to go back for what you have forgotten.’ or the one I prefer. “Go back and fetch it.”, from ‘John Constantine: Hellblazer – Papa Midnite, 2005. The Sankofa is a teacher, teaching those who see it to go back to their roots in order to move forward. To go back and get the best of yourself, your past, and rediscover what it has to teach you. It’s the guide to discovering your true and full potential. It asks us to remember what we have forgotten, to find what we have lost, to look for what has been stripped away, to reclaim, revisit, revive and preserve.

Personal Meaning.

Two paths, two selves, two lines, spiraling inwards, then outwards, then in again. Looking back, reflecting, then moving forward. Two lines that cane be said to form a heart, the centre of a self. Two lines, reflected, twin forces reflected, two opposing forces joining as one, past and present, light and dark, life and death, higher self and lower self.

“To be fully myself I must accept the light. To be fully myself I mist accept the dark.”

“All things have happened before. All things will happen again.”

“We go back to the past to create from it.”

“All that I am I have always been. All that I will be I already am.”

“The path that leads to life leads to death. The path that leads to death leads to life.”

“Stop holding on to the bad things, it’s like a clogged up drain, foul smelling, and it damages no one but yourself. Instead, go back and fetch the good things, revive them, hold onto them. Think to the future, to the potential of a situation or person, the Sankofa can mean this for you.”]

I have a book, ‘The Murder of Miss O’, if you’re interested, look for it on Amazon.Or, if you like art, check out https://society6.com/issara_simone

Let’s Play Pretend.

Saturday 9th of February 2019

Sometimes getting from one moment to the next feels like dressing up. It feels like rummaging around in a fancy dress box and playing pretend. It feels like an animal pretending to be human.

It hits me sometimes, just out of the blue, whenever I try to step out of this role, whenever I try to do something positive or healthy, to get me out of this depression. It’s a wave or realisation that swallows me. A voice that says:

“You’re just pretending. This isn’t you. Everyone sees through you. They know you’re fake. They know you’re pretending to be like them. They know you’re just pretending to be whole.”

This makes me stop in my tracks. Depression is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Anyway, enough of that. What if everyone is free to be exactly who they are? I say this, or write this, because with my new tattoo, I’m feeling more myself than I felt without it. Which is new. This tattoo’s made me all existential. Which is better than how I felt after the first tattoo.

[December 2016: How comes no one told me? How comes no one told me it would change me, that it would change the way I see myself, and how others see me? I got used to being this person, I got used to being myself and now I have no self. I don’t know myself. I’m altered, marked.

Black ink pierced skin, tattooed me, and pain became a reality, a state of being, a form. Now, I’m left with a permanence in a world of transience. How do I deal with that? It will be forever when nothing is forever.

“The mark will change you.”

“Do you understand that?”

And I do? And the mark becomes a part of me, a foreign part, a new part that I have to get used to, like a new hand or a new foot.

But I need time, and I need time to understand it, to understand what it means.

“You chose it, your mark. You could have chosen anything in the world and you chose this, your permanence.

And I have to understand why.

“There’s power in the pain, in the blood and in the mark, in the ink fused to skin.”

And I understand this. But why did no one tell me I would change?]

It seems three years ago I was even more of a drama queen than I am now.

[December 2016: There’s a peeling away, with a glimmer underneath, a new skin waiting to be revealed in its fullness. What is on the other side of me?]

[ December 2016: There’s a stripping, a peeling away of self and the idea of self. The mark has faded to less of a vibrant black to a black/grey, dull. It has become more like skin and less like a brand. More a part and less artificial. And there’s a difference, a difference between accepting reality and accepting this as reality.]

I haven’t thrown away all my old diaries, which is disgusting since I compared them to used sanitary towels.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ available now, on Amazon, and other book places…

The Oracle Series: An Introduction.

I recently wrote how I enjoy writing personal essays but don’t think they’re good enough to share because they’re too personal. I feel the same way about this introduction. There should be a level of detachment, at least that’s how I’ve been taught to write such things. 

I should introduce the premise of this work without injecting unnecessary personal information, even if doing so feels like turning my back on myself. I shouldn’t write about how I’ve been feeling overwhelmingly anxious for the past four days, how I can’t stop my heart from pounding and how it’s almost as though my body thinks it’s dying. But I want to, because as I’m typing this, this is how I’m feeling. And even if I don’t want that to affect this, I can’t deny that it probably will and is. More than that, I want it to. This is a reflection of a moment, not a denial of it.

Creating art is one thing, talking about art, articulately and clearly, it’s process, it’s meaning, it’s purpose, is another. I read this article, okay, I read half this article, about why artists struggle to talk about their work. From what I read, it’s not so much that artists struggle to talk about their work; it’s that they talk too much about the ideas behind the work and not the reality of the work. If that made any sense as a sentence. 

It got me thinking, how would I talk about this project? Seriously? The last time someone asked me, “What kind of work do you do?” My genuine answer was “Weird stuff.” Because, a: I wanted the conversation to be over, it was a sneak attack, I wasn’t prepared for it, and b: I didn’t have the words to explain it articulately and clearly in the short time available. I didn’t want to get carried off into the Wonderland of the ideas of my work and keep him there bored and wondering what the hell I’m on about for hours, because I know how annoying that is. I wanted to be clear, precise, intelligible. Yeah, I know, I nailed it.

So, what have I been working on? What is ‘The Oracle Series’ and why should you be collecting them? Well, let’s talk about the ideas behind it for an hour. You’ve got nothing better to do, right? Of course you haven’t, you’re reading this. I know, I’m not funny.

Let’s get into this.

‘Beltane’ 2014

This ten minute drip painting was the first of many to come, not that I knew that at the time. For some reason, I don’t know the reason so don’t ask, Beltane is my favourite Wiccan sabbat. And every year, apart from this year because I was ill, I create a Beltane painting. 

I associate Beltane with the story of Mary Magdalene so this painting is of Mary Magdalene emerging from the darkness of the void, of the eternal, dripping, manifesting herself into this reality. She’s featureless because she’s formless, she’s whatever we project upon her, whatever we make her out to be, whatever story we tell enough times, and because her story hasn’t been fully told yet, she’s incomplete.

I pretty much fell head over heels in love with this painting. But it was just a ten minute sketch, essentially, on really bad quality paper, I could do better, the idea deserved better. This stayed in the back of my mind until eventually I was like, yeah, I’m gonna do it again, only better.

‘Qualia – The Isolationist’, Nov 2019

With ‘Qualia’, I wanted to capture a supreme being emerging from the void and forcing herself into this reality, creating herself as she pours herself into this world. But I still wasn’t happy with it.

‘Mama Brighid – The Isolationist’, Feb 2020

In this painting, she’s not just creating herself, she’s creating the world as she creates herself. Flowers fall from her mouth and are seeded in this reality. As she emerges out of darkness she brings stars and light with her. She holds an acorn shaped like an egg, the potential for creation. The butterfly fertilises the egg, a representation of her counterpart. If she’s creation, her counterpart is death, destruction, change, metamorphosis.

I thought I would stop here, but I didn’t.

‘Tutu Pele’, Jul 2020‘Persephone Opens’, Dec 2020‘Ereshkigal Descending’, Oct 2020

It wasn’t until ‘Tutu Pele’ that I kind of got a better idea of what I was doing. With this one I had an image of one of those classical marble statues, and underneath that, not quite erased yet, was the true goddess. Despite this revelation, it wasn’t until ‘Persephone Opens’ that I started calling them Void Paintings and everything started coming together.

So, let me explain what I’ve actually been doing.

“The ‘neutral’ body was always unmarked, white and masculine.” – D. Haraway.

What are Void Paintings? It’s the idea of the neutral body. It’s an idea that crept into the subconscious from classical marble statues. This is neutral, this is what everyone can, should relate to. This is the ideal, this is the standard. 

The natural erosion and deliberate suppression of polychromy has led to a misreading of history and beauty standards. These statues were never meant to be perceived as white, and our idea of perfection now, is not what was considered perfection back then.

One of my favourite artists is Marc Quinn because he plays with this so beautifully, and looking at my work I see his influence, kind of. 

What I’ve been doing is taking ‘classical’ portraits of a deity and stripping them, whitewashing them as we’ve done our history. Leaving them blank so that we can project anything we want on to them, rewrite their stories for ourselves.

“Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable” – Cesar A. Cruz.

The voidness, the featurelessness I’ve always found pretty comforting, pretty neutral, until recently. I don’t know what it was, something had happened and I wanted to see a friendly face. Instead, I turned around and was confronted by one of my faceless portraits and seeing nothing reflected back at me, was for a moment, incredibly unnerving. It made me realise how much I look for reflection in others’ faces.

Does any of this explain what void paintings are, or what I’m trying to do? If so, can I condense this into one simple sentence for the next person who asks me, “So, what kind of work do you do?”

“… I realised how powerfully sensuality and lust are aroused by flesh that is only partly revealed.” – ‘Venus in Furs’, Leopold von Sacher-Masoch.

Have you ever seen any of Connie Imoden’s photography? Just a little side note. I see her influence in this work too, and in a lot of my earlier life-drawings. Such as this piece from 2007? 2006? How old am I? Wow.

Her photography plays with darkness, reflection and light, usually only revealing parts of the body. There’s this one piece in particular that I love, it’s like a being forming themselves out of darkness. She’s captured a moment where this being is for that split second, only a hand and a ribbon of flesh. It’s not yet solidified itself into this reality, it’s not yet whole. It’s like a ghost, almost seen. Something that is only partially revealed is the same as a partially revealed secret, you want to know more. But it’s the things that aren’t there, as well as the things that are, that form the story in our heads.

“So, what sort of work do you do?”

“I’m so glad you asked. I’m currently working on something called The Oracle Series. It consists of featureless portraits of archetypes, I call them void paintings. It’s a commentary on whitewashing our history and how that’s affected our standards of godliness, perfection and beauty.”

That sounds so pretentious, I’m going back to my original answer. “Weird stuff.”

Issara Simone, Saturday 8th of May, 2021.

The Oracle Series: A collection of void paintings coming soon to https://society6.com/issara_simone Can you collect them all?

In the meantime, some of the art seen here is available for sale, check that out.

Also, I have a book, you should get it, I think I did alright. It’s available on Amazon and stuff.

‘The Murder of Miss O’

Freedom to Female.

Friday 8th of February 2019

I dreamt the world was ending.

The truly good left in a rapture type event, the truly bad received a cut across the forehead, marking them I suppose. Then a fire swept through and burnt them alive.

I was left behind with a bunch of others, forever the in between.

There was a vessel leaving the planet, taking people into space for the chance to survive the end. The captain and his assistant took one look at us and said “No” and left, leaving us stranded.

Don’t think this was a nightmare, I was existed to left behind, the world was mine to explore, for however long I had left. There was no reason for me to fear going here or there. No reason to fear I might be attacked, verbally or physically, raped or murdered, because there was barely any people left. It was freedom from being born wrong, from being born weak and female. I finally, truly, had the right to do what I wanted, because there was no one else around whose rights to my body superseded my own.

You may think this is paranoia because it sounds like it is, but, I’ve been followed home four times by men who saw my walking passed them as an invitation. I’ve learned that ‘No’ isn’t an answer and ‘Leave me alone’ is playing hard to get. I don’t know my own mind, but these men know it for me. So, no, it’s not paranoia.

So, in this dream, I’m free. I plan to travel to Ireland. Why, I don’t know, it was a dream.

As nice as the dream began it did rapidly descend into a nightmare.

I found this pottery studio and walked in, I figured the place was empty. I wanted to see all the beautiful ceramics. Long story short, because I know peoples dreams are boring, the potter and her son were also left behind.

He’d murdered his mother and upon seeing me tied me up so he could bump me off too. I woke up before he could finish the job though.

Seeing this written down, I’m starting to think I have a warped mind. Never mind. Anyway, I picked up this diary today because I have plans. I thought I’d write them down here so that this diary could contain something positive. And, when I get back, I can tick off the things I did, like marking spots on an adventure map. Okay, here it goes.

The Great Umbrella Hunt.A Tattoo to Remember.Foraging for Crystals.The Search for a Cheap Hairdresser.Lingerie Madness.The Temple of the Body Shop.The Church of BooksToiletries (It’s impossible to glam up this one)The Sushi Luncheon.

I’ve been thinking about that dream and wondering about the man who killed his mother. It occurred to me that many of you, imaginary readers, may be wondering how a man who killed his mother was neither good or bad enough to get left behind. So, I’ll tell you.

You see, he must have been faced with the same choice that I was. He was free to do whatever he wanted, with no one left to judge him, so, he chose to kill his mother. Given the freedom to choose he chose to become a murderer. I chose to become an explorer. And yes, I realise that this dream came from me, so acknowledging that… if there was a rapture type event and I was left behind with my mother, would I kill her so that I would be free to be said explorer? It had to be asked.

The Things we Leave Behind.

Saturday 2nd of February 2019.

I push my hands into the mud, just to see what comes back. I scrub my hands with it, just to see to what sheds. It gets under my nails and burrows deep. I’m an explorer, an artist of the world. My canvas is the small things, the threads within reality.

Even in the greatest populace, neglect.

I made a list of things to do today and have the intention to do none of them. I feel like a zombie, one of those slow, limp, dropping ones. I could sleep. I could just sleep.

I made another list, of things I used to love and now I have no understanding of. Have I grown up? Moved on? Changed? Why don’t these loves mean anything anymore? I want to feel what I felt before, I want to relive those memories. But these things just seem dead, there’s nothing in them. My youth must have drained them dry.

What things have you moved on from?

‘The Murder of Miss O’ available now.