The Breakdown Comes, Lady Pink in collaboration with Jenny Holzer, 1983 spray enamel on canvas 120” x 120”, in a private collection
'The breakdown comes when you stop controlling yourself and want the release of a bloodbath'
http://www.pinksmith.com/index.html
I can't count on my fingers and toes how many times I've bit my tongue because it was expected of me to not stand up for myself. Eventually I stopped biting my tongue. But there is still that anger and frustration when I do stand up for myself, but someone around me dismisses it. Says, "you've got to learn to let it go." No, actually I don't. There is no letting go of the feeling of being silenced. Of the years of disinterest in everything I've done, and everything I am.
In the 6th and 7th grade I took up drums, which I liked more, and was better at, than the flute that I played previously. A boy in the band, in the percussion section with me, would hit me with the drumsticks. Often on my legs. He would hit me with sticks of solid wood. I complained, and cried, but I can't remember anyone taking up arms over it. Eventually I came to the conclusion that if I no longer wanted to suffer such abuse that I would have to give up playing drums. Which is exactly what I did. I remember wanting to paint. I took a class and enjoyed it and was praised momentarily for what I did. I expressed interest in learning more, but no one encouraged me, so I gave that up too. Now I study art history.
I remember a few years ago my little cousin getting a drum set. He clicked the drumsticks together and banged away, and when we went to see our grandparent's, our grandfather showed my little cousin of four how to hold the drumstick. I seethed. I had no such moment with him, but I held my tongue. At my grandparent's again, my brother and I came for dinner. My brother had the opportunity to go traveling in Europe after high school and see all the museums that I still have yet to visit. He learned a lot from those museums about Renaissance art and how it transitioned into Mannerism and then Baroque, but when I went to explain something in more detail, I was brushed off. So I held my tongue again. Despite having spend the last 6 years studying art history, apparently I had nothing to contribute.
My life has taught me that I have one of two options to choose from:
When I was 13 I chose to give up rather than fight for myself.
Now that I am 23 I choose to fight rather than give up on myself.
This is my roaring. This is my breakdown.
I will not accept this silencing, this abuse, this lessening.
I will accept nothing less than rapt attention.
'The breakdown comes when you stop controlling yourself and want the release of a bloodbath'
http://www.pinksmith.com/index.html
I can't count on my fingers and toes how many times I've bit my tongue because it was expected of me to not stand up for myself. Eventually I stopped biting my tongue. But there is still that anger and frustration when I do stand up for myself, but someone around me dismisses it. Says, "you've got to learn to let it go." No, actually I don't. There is no letting go of the feeling of being silenced. Of the years of disinterest in everything I've done, and everything I am.
In the 6th and 7th grade I took up drums, which I liked more, and was better at, than the flute that I played previously. A boy in the band, in the percussion section with me, would hit me with the drumsticks. Often on my legs. He would hit me with sticks of solid wood. I complained, and cried, but I can't remember anyone taking up arms over it. Eventually I came to the conclusion that if I no longer wanted to suffer such abuse that I would have to give up playing drums. Which is exactly what I did. I remember wanting to paint. I took a class and enjoyed it and was praised momentarily for what I did. I expressed interest in learning more, but no one encouraged me, so I gave that up too. Now I study art history.
I remember a few years ago my little cousin getting a drum set. He clicked the drumsticks together and banged away, and when we went to see our grandparent's, our grandfather showed my little cousin of four how to hold the drumstick. I seethed. I had no such moment with him, but I held my tongue. At my grandparent's again, my brother and I came for dinner. My brother had the opportunity to go traveling in Europe after high school and see all the museums that I still have yet to visit. He learned a lot from those museums about Renaissance art and how it transitioned into Mannerism and then Baroque, but when I went to explain something in more detail, I was brushed off. So I held my tongue again. Despite having spend the last 6 years studying art history, apparently I had nothing to contribute.
My life has taught me that I have one of two options to choose from:
When I was 13 I chose to give up rather than fight for myself.
Now that I am 23 I choose to fight rather than give up on myself.
This is my roaring. This is my breakdown.
I will not accept this silencing, this abuse, this lessening.
I will accept nothing less than rapt attention.
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