It is a painting filled with turbulence of brushstroke and thick pigment. In it a road curves through a field, then stops as if at some invisible barrier. A chaos of black wings rises from the wheat. The painting inspired the attempt at black humor that caused me to title my hospital journal How Not to Paint Blackbirds. I spent a large part of my life in the struggle to become a painter. My effort had raised questions and conflicts, confusing and frustrating me. When I wasn’t painting but filling my days with cooking, sewing, knitting, gardening, reading, and being mother to my two sons, I wondered why I ever put myself through the inevitable emotional pain of trying to be a painter. When I was painting, the process itself felt like life to me, no matter how poor or ineffectual the final product. There was no confusion or frustration about writing or being a writer. I was a writer. Whatever I didn’t know about myself, I knew this as surely as I knew that day follows night. A dream gave me this realization, though I have no recollection whatsoever of the content of the dream.
What do You think about The Long Journey Home (2011)?
