Clown House
Archived from Apr 06, 2023:
“Painting is but another word for feeling” - John Constable
To be honest, I had little to no inspiration this week. I won’t bore you with the tedious list of stuff that my brain goblin is trying to wrangle, but I did complain to a few of my friends, so everyone say thank you to Sarthak for forcing me to have a coherent thought. Also yes, I am just trusting the internet that maybe that quote is accurate. Either way, the sentiment stands.
Many years ago, I asked my mom to paint me a rainbow room. At whatever age a third grader is, I’m sure I didn’t appreciate exactly how painstaking it was to lovingly crosshatch four walls in paint to make a sunshine bomb of a room. I remember colourful curtains, held aside with repurposed rainbow bangles. Over the years there were zoo animals, tie dye and rainbows. Unsurprisingly, I one day became a 13 year old who took themselves entirely too seriously. Let me tell you, I was certain the deep, blood red I chose for my next bedroom would communicate how specifically moody I was. But also no one else would really get it, you know? It was also, looking back, deeply boring compared to previous design choices. Shockingly, it got worse from there. I next, inexplicably, chose navy blue and off white. I do have to admit, the whiteboard paint was pretty cool in practice, but honestly didn’t look great.
Now, I think early 20s are weird for everyone, trying to find the balance of yourself and your interests in the context of newly minted adulthood. You’re meeting new people, losing contact with people once you aren’t forced to be in the same building 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, finding work and a new path in life. I don’t want to assume any experience is universal, but I do think a lot of people can relate to the feeling of flattening yourself in hopes of fitting in more, of taking up less space, of being well liked. I think this is a fairly natural impulse, especially in a time when so much is changing in your life. When I look back on pictures of my 20s, I see bits and pieces of who I am now, but what looms large for me is how clear it is to me I let other people’s opinions dampen my interests, my self expression and frankly, a lot of my joy. I don’t mean that in an accusatory way, I think it was just easier to try to make myself smaller than try to deal with all the intensity I live with. If you know me, I think it’s quite fair to describe me as intense. Not everyone means it as a compliment, but a lot of people who love me understand that it’s part of me and I think that’s what I’m ultimately trying to get at. It’s not that other people’s opinions of me don’t matter, it’s that I now understand I get to choose whose opinion matters.
I’m coming up on 30, and while the last few years have not been particularly kind in the broad scope of things, I do feel like I have settled into my own skin in a way I was working towards for a long time. A lot of these feelings culminated when I moved into my current apartment. After an extremely lonely and tiring year that resulted in the implosion of a decade long friendship and moving twice, I made the choice to paint my apartment. I didn’t choose a solid colour, I didn’t choose one colour, I chose to spend 18 hours covering my hallway in bright, graphic, geometric shapes and as I sat on the floor, hands still covered in paint and looked around, something inside really clicked. There is a power in unapologetically seeking joy, and specifically the things that will bring you joy. I do not care if someone thinks my home is childish. I do not care if someone thinks I should “grow up”, that I should dress differently, change my hair, live smaller to suit their myopic view of what a life can be. I’m sure someone would call my home a clown house and mean it as an insult, but as I cover a globe in disco tiles on the weekend, I will surely take it as a compliment. Since the hallway, I have kept painting and accumulating odd projects. I spent nearly 30 hours on my bedroom wall and no amount of judgement will outweigh my dad telling me, smile on his face, that the pictures do the mural no justice, it has to be seen in person.
For me, painting is meditation, it’s creativity and it is the physical manifestation of the concept of home. This feeling truly comes to its apex when I bring people I love into my home and they light up. It’s hard to stand in a room that looks like a lava lamp and not smile. While I learned this many years ago when my mom would come sit in my tie dye room and tell me it was basically impossible to be sad in my room, I internalized it very recently. I am so glad to have her, and I am so glad I came back around to what so clearly brought and brings me joy. What I find so wondrous how many people in my life have loved me through so many of my phases, from rainbows to very boring beige and all the way back again. And so, this is not only a love letter to painting, but one to patience, to acceptance, to the myriad of people and loves I have in my life. This is a love letter to them and to change, to getting older, to putting together the pieces of yourself that you find in every corner of the world. It’s a love letter to carrying home inside you and letting it all out to build a place that brings joy. It’s a love letter to love, made manifest.
Alright, that was plenty sappy for one week. Next week will probably be back to something leaning towards “bummer” vibes, so apologies in advance. A few people asked last week if it was OK to share this newsletter and the answer is: yes, of course! Shares and comments are both very welcome. As always, thank you for being here.
Bonus image of how I imagine my brain goblin:
