On Art v.2

Perfect.

Let me paint a picture for you:

I sit alone at the dining table. To my right, sits homemade iced-green tea, a little bitter from the burning of the green leaves, but sweet to the educated tea-enthusiast, alongside a deep bowl filled with peeled ruby-red grapefruit dusted lightly with sugar. Directly across from me sits my laptop, and just beyond that, across the length of the table are three bay windows overlooking a baseball field. Outside the rain falls sporadically, and the faint pitter-patter of the droplets crescendo and decrescendo with the violent bursts of wind.

You may call it gloomy, and miserable,

but to me, to me this is perfect and I can sit and write...

---

I have actually thought about this post, yet I never published it until a good friend brought up a very good point.

I would be lying if I told you I have always been proud of what I do, of painting and drawing, of sketching and smudging... the art profession is not as noble as say, a doctor, an engineer, a lawyer. We paint, draw, splatter, erase, and the world looks not on this profession as honorable by any means.

Years ago, to be an artist was to be great, da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Bernini, Caravaggio, Titian... the list goes on and on, but nowadays, if someone tells you they're an artist, immediately you think of someone sitting among cans of paint with a painbrush in their hand all day long.

Similarly, if you were to have asked me if I was an artist 3 months ago, I would've immediately denied the accusation and explained the functionality, the importance and the versatility of being a designer.

My answer is this: 3 months ago, I didn't think myself to be an artist by any means. It was disgusting and an insult to my being.

Yet something strange happened this summer.

Aside from being stranded at home without any means of escaping the tumultuous atmosphere, I found myself totally alone. The friends I had, though I still hold them dear, I felt as if I were a burden to call them amidst their busy schedules to complain, to vent, to whine... or to cry.

And then tears alone didn't soothe what I felt, and I couldn't write how I felt. How can I put into words something so complex, when I myself couldn't fathom how far the emotion went, where it hurt, and I didn't know how to feel.

I love talking to people, don't get me wrong, but when you talk, explain how you feel, how do you expect them to reply... a mere "I'm sorry" doesn't necessarily ease the pain, so you find yourself graced by their presence, but bathed in a thick silence. I yearned, I hungered for something to understand, for something to not only ease the pain, but take it away. If you swallow your sorrows away, it'll only return until you drown it once more. And I'm not the person to resort to something as low as alcoholism, drugs, or self-inflicted pain.

The anger found remedy in something as simple and tangible as a paintbrush. My anger escaped my body through streaming red across a pure white canvas. My despair covered the white with a deep deep hue somewhere between brown, red and blue.

But that was only the beginning,

What emerged was beauty. I found beauty in the scenes outside, in blurred images, it raindrops on a glass pane, in the fading of foliage the closer it gets to the horizon and the farther it becomes.

I developed something great, something I feel passionate about. I guess that's what artists are. To paint, draw, whatever, it may not collect as much money as lawyers, doctors, businessmen make, but to devote your life to this profession means to feel so passionate about it that it brings you peace, happiness and an understanding of that which you cannot even begin to fathom.

My plan as of now is to create a series. A series of artworks portraying blurred images, silhouettes in the rain, unfocused city lights, the simplification of daily scenes so that each person may relate to the general shape, the mystery of life.

The first piece is a set of three, a triptych if you will, of neon lights from the city, unfocused, silhouettes huddled together under umbrellas, and hanging in front is a single glass pane covered in raindrops,

as if you're looking outside your window, through the rain, on a city street.

Here is my final answer.

I have recognized that I am an artist, and have accepted it. Acceptance is a process of self-realization. First, denial. Second, recognition. Third, egotistical pride, and finally, acceptance.

I paint because I can, because I want to, because it helps me understand my own life, because it eases the pain, because I love beautiful things, because there are moments of my own life I wish to illustrate, keep, and hold dear as a reminder of my life, and my humanity.

Yours Truly,

Katrina

On Time

It's quirky how time works,

how it passes,

how it fades,

how it freezes,

how it drags,

how it flips as fast as the blink of an eye,

and how one second seems to pass as if it were eight weeks.

Time fascinates me, it captivates me in how relative it seems.

When in actuality, every second is just as long as the first.

I find myself waiting,

waiting the hours away. Waiting until time speeds up again, until it whisks me away with the dandelions and the birds,

until I can't feel it anymore,

until I forget about it.

Every morning I wake up, and sigh. One more day closer,

but as my date approaches, my excitement heightens only prolonging the hours.

Each passing day should be easier, because it's one day closer.

It should be, but somehow it's not.

I'm tired of waiting,

waiting for something to happen,

waiting for my life to pick me up and take me places,

waiting to see you.

It's ironic actually,

I'm fascinated by time, simultaneously it fatigues me, confuses me, annoys me... constantly I'm thinking that one second past is another second closer to death, but here I sit wishing the seconds by, daydreaming the minutes past, closer to death,

And I tell myself to be spontaneous, to take every opportunity,

yet how can I?

I want to badly to begin my life, to do the things on my list, to live as if tomorrow is the end, and if it was, I would be greatly disappointed. There is still so much to do, so much to see, so much to feel and experience.

But as a sophomore college student, without money, without a car, without support, how can I go out and do what I want?

Instead of traveling the world, I'm reading about Afghanistan, about romance in France, murder in Russia, adventure in the Conga,

I'm living vicariously, fighting off dementors with Harry, impatiently waiting for Henry with Clare, I am the Man in the Iron Mask, I am going Around the World in 80 Days, I am Edmond Dantes, I am Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde, I am hopelessly in love with Edward Cullen.

It is no use, sitting and wasting time, precious time.

The time passing will be the ones you cling to at the very end.

I hate waiting.

On Art

What do you think of artists?

Do you push them aside? Do you find them useless? Do you find them lazy? Do you find them quirky? Do you find them weird?

What do you think of artists?

and what do you think of art?

Let me explain to you exactly what an artist is, and why I, Katrina Valera am an artist.

---

Most of the time, people go through life, existing, living, partying, sleeping, hoping, regretting. Let me ask you this: have you ever held something back, held back the truth for fear of certain reaction?

Held back only to have it thrown back in your face?

If I should be so bold, I'd tell you never to hold anything back. If it comes from your heart, there should never be any reason to hold back how you feel. It means something, and it always will. Better to have told the truth rather than to keep it behind a facade. Better to have revealed than to have the moment pass and never have the opportunity again.

And I am an artist because of this.

We create, we dream, we think, we express... all our opinions, all our views, everything we feel we put into images, into words, into frescoes and paintings and objects, into color and onto canvas. We allow ourselves to be human, and accept every emotion we own, every feeling we express for the world to see. We don't hide, we are not afraid.

Creativity is what makes the difference between a 3 year old and a fatigued 40 year old man. Artists, they cherish that creativity, and everyday we create things. The colors you see everyday, the color of the screen you are reading, and reflection of the rays... we take those, and we create meaning, we create life, we create emotion... we create humanity... we create art.

The pieces of paper you take notes on, the ink in your pen, the everyday objects your hands come in contact with... we give them a story, we give an inanimate object life, allow it to breath, to move and to feel...

Why?

I've often asked myself that exact question.

I guess it's an acceptance of our place as humans. We aren't robots, we think, we feel, we breathe, we die, we love, we cry, we suffer, we succeed... and in pouring out our emotions, we cope with being human, we seek to create an understanding, a deeper meaning to our feelings. Always, after creating something I feel exhilarated, much like that feeling you get after taking an early morning jog, or a steaming bubble bath.

And that paper on the desk beside you?

That's a doorway to whatever you want it to be. To escape from the world and be immersed in anything you create, in your own world.

I'm Katrina Valera

and I'm an artist.

On Tragedy

I picked up a book to read last week.

I'm about halfway.

The Time Traveler's Wife

Ring a bell?

I chose this book for several reasons,

1. This book I recall picking up at a Half Price Book store exactly three years ago, and I remember making a mental note to read it. I read Twilight instead... why? Now that I think about it, I have no clue, but I do remember thinking at the time that Twilight was a light read, and The Time Traveler's Wife was harder, and confusing to understand the time differences.

I agree entirely with that.

But you remedy that by going along with everything. Stop trying to make sense of everything and putting everything in perfect order... when it comes to time, and emotions, and ... love you can't make sense of it, so go along, smile and forget what is "supposed to be" and "how it ought to be."

See the world as it is, not as it should.

2. Going on a roadtrip, I figured I'd pick up an audiobook as opposed to listening to music. Whenever I listen to music, I find myself lost in the melody. Lyrics... I don't listen to the lyrics. I mean, I can, but I have to tell myself to. And before I know it, I'm lost in my own thoughts again in time with the music. With a book, I would engage my mind and distract myself from the dangers of my own thoughts. I find I tend to worry, or analyze unimportant details...

3. Call me silly, call me cheesy and romantic, but I felt a certain empathy, an understanding for Clare and Henry as they'd go through long periods of time, waiting to see eachother. At times they were restless and they'd go through tough periods, but in the end, they'd know the happiness would justify every moment previous. I understood Clare when she'd describe how much she missed him, and I felt sorry for her.

4. At the same time, the concept completely captivated me. I'm a determinist, meaning I believe entirely on fate. Flawed, I understand, but it's how I think. My tragic flaw...

Anyways, Henry has the ability to bend time, to take his life in his own hands, yet somehow, fate runs its course, even for a man who time travels. I don't know how to explain this in a blog, hell I don't even know how to put this to words... but time and the ability to manipulate it and still have such a thing as "fate" intrigues me.

The ending of summer is bittersweet.

On one end, I'm ecstatic, I'll be returning to campus which I have labeled, home since the house I grew up in no longer comforts me, and everything only worsens. The only time where I am at peace is when I'm up in the early hours. I have received scolding for this early morning habit, so my peace now comes only when I sleep.

It's so different. The house feels different, the dynamic feels different, and although I never thought this would happen, and I spent only 2 quarters on campus, I'm fascinated in this turn-over. Fascinated and annoyed.

I never ever thought this would happen, afterall, this address has been my home for more than 10 years already, but several months away has made me change my mind. I guess I was ignorant to this, and now that it has happened, I'm perplexed.

Nevertheless, I'm glad to be back in a manner of weeks, I'm glad to see people I would talk with everyday, I'm excited to have a life of my own, to walk around and be places without the use of a car, to take walks in the early hours, to do cartwheels on the lawn at 1 am, and to finally be free to be who I am, to be able to take off this mask and be appreciated for who I am.

On the other hand,

I'm terrified. In the course of one year, everything has changed. The people I once spent every hour with has lessened, and my social circle has drastically changed.

I blame myself, entirely for this, especially that determinist philosophy of mine,

and although I know I am at fault for losing touch with my best friends, I still feel that life goes on, and holding on to things will only hurt when they pull away. Hell, it already pains to see the passing of friendships and the loss of contact, but I guess it's my way of moving on, of coping and dealing with the situation. Sometimes I can't help but feel that while I do care deeply for people, I would never want to impose my problems on them, and at this point there are so many that I fear people would only get tired of my bickering and whining.

And here I am, complaining on a blog... how ironic. I guess I just keep my life to only myself and one other, and the rest of the world can see that mask, I'm not quite ready to explain what it is I'm going through, complaining will only make you a burden to another.

That's tragic, especially since the remedy to tragedy,

is humanity itself.