upon waking, i immediately started thinking about the news... probably because the last thing i read last night on AOL was the death of natasha richardson. very, very horribly sad. what a loss for us all. i loved her work and i love her husband's work and it just made me so so sad for her children.
and so all morning i've been having a hard (unsuccessful) time getting certain horrors out of my head: the woman who had her lips, eyelids, and HANDS ripped off by her best friend's chimpanzee. oh my god. OH MY GOD! the horrific image i've got in my head of this poor woman is breaking my heart.
and then, there's the monster in austria who kept his daughter in a windowless rape dungeon for 27 years, impregnated her 7 times, let one child die, and raped her in front of her children- 3 of which never saw sunlight until they were rescued. i mean... WHAT! HOW! a mental disorder isn't a good enough explanation for that type of sustained torture and unimaginable cruelty. it just isn't. your ass is fucking evil. EVIL! and i can't stop thinking about the daughter... this isn't an experience a person will ever be able to bounce back from. ever. some lawyer involved with the case referred to her as a "broken woman". how the hell could she not be? she's a walking murder victim. there's nothing any of us can do to heal her from something like this. not one thing.
and maybe that's why my mind is so wrapped up in all this- the tremendous sense of helplessness i feel when i learn of someone who's been so totally humiliated, brutalized, tortured... i can't really even describe my reaction to this. i just feel so separate from the world. the world seems enormously, inexplicably gross. i have to make a huge effort to remind myself that good does, in fact, exist. i have to remind myself that, hopefully, and with enough diligence and stubborn perseverance, ART can combat these horrors... that this woman might, MIGHT, be able to find some small comfort in a poem or a piece of music or a painting... that she will hopefully pick up a paintbrush or a pen... what else is there to hope for?
these texts are an archive of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area from march 2007 - march 2015. it stands as a record of close to a decade of my life, charting the struggles i faced as an artist, daughter, and lover. messy and chaotic at times, eloquent and poetic at others, these texts are an index i am proud of. it was here in this electric box that i learned how to be honest about my experiences and the person i needed to become. it was here that i first learned the truism that words make the world and how to trust such a beautiful, rife, hard fact.
Mar 19, 2009
heart-broken rant...
Labels:
angela simione,
artist,
duty,
hope,
news gripe,
personal,
torture,
victimization
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4 comments:
Angela - I can't follow the news very often because it affects me too so much and I can't let these things go very easily. I didn't know about that woman in Austria, hearing of a women going through a life like that does bring about so, so many emotions and does bring tears to my eyes. I'm right here with you on your thoughts at what art can do to combat all of this evil we can't understand in the world. It always amazes me how much empathy, compassion, and understanding can come just from an image, and how fortunate we are to be artists and be able to be a part of and add to Art And this is why I like and feel connected to your work so much. :)
thank you so much heather! and i'm glad i'm not the only one that is endlessly troubled by this stuff. more and more i feel like artists have a duty to be aware of what happens in the world - good and bad. i have to limit my news-intake on a routine basis because it just gets to be too much sometimes but i think it can also serve to establish a connection between us all: being aware of the struggles others are facing. i'm so happy that art has been a comfort to you. just one person finding comfort in the work of another is more than enough reason to continue laying brush to canvas. :) thank you so so much!
if I ever as to encounter that austrian man I would rip his face off with my bare hands
and i would not be inclined to stop you, should i be lucky enough to be in the room, girl! when it comes to things of this nature, the compassion i strive for gets thrown in the toilet. they should throw him back down into his damned dungeon, lock the door, and let him die alone in the dark.
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