Be empathetic, it feels good.....and makes others feel good too

 Browsing through a bin of old magazines in a bookshop I came across

an old People Magazine.

Flicking through the pages I found a section called Vintage photos

from the 1930's Depression in the USA.

Though there were a number of very thought provoking

images, there was one photo that spoke straight to my heart.

After reading the short story that was attached to the image

I decided that I had to try to do a painting that somehow

incorporated parts of the story in the painting.

The story:

Among the numerous suffering and starving people

who were experiencing droughts, dust storms, lost livelihoods 

and lost crops, there was a doctor, who by foot tirelessly 

walked the Southern Great Plains offering free medical

assistance to everyone, wherever he went.

*

Watching a video essay together with my son a few

nights ago, we heard the speaker utter these words:

 ''Empathy is a sin.''

The fact that the speaker was a preacher, made us look

at each other in disbelief and yell:

 ''What?!? Did he really say that?''

Having spent the last 25 years of my life absolutely

committed to accumulating as much information

as possible through thorough research founded on

accredited sources, accepted peer reviews, 

and sources globally acknowledged by other experts in

 the field,.........I can say this with confidence:

''Empathy is a sin'' is the very antithetical(opposite) of what most

religious/spiritual/wisdoms texts exhorts.

See, not only did he say that empathy is a sin, but he also said 

that it is a ''weakness''?!!!? Yikes!!!

Does that mean that sympathy and compassion in his view

 are weaknesses as well?

What about kindness? Caring?

In my view, all words are mere approximations.

With this I mean that we attach our own interpretations,

experiences and unconscious biases to the words we

and others use. 

Whatever our definition of empathy may be, just imagine 

a world void of it, or void of compassion and sympathy.

A world in which caring and being kind to others is

a ''bad'' thing, a sign of weakness.

As far as I can ascertain the fact that us humans are able

to express and experience compassion and empathy

for others is one of mankind's most redeeming 

qualities.

Empathy, may I suggest, is the opposite of self-absorption

and narcissism. It's stepping out of one's own ''bubble''

of existence and feel strong enough in one self to be

 able to recognize and identify with others when

they experience struggles and difficult times.

Empathy, rather than making us weaker makes us stronger

because it helps us to foster stronger and deeper relationships

with others.

This in turn promotes a deeper insight and understanding of

each other. A foundation upon which we can build a

compassionate and inclusive community/society.

The words sympathy and empathy are often viewed

as meaning the same thing, but in my view, they are two

different ''creatures''.

Sympathy, I interpret as to ''feeling for xyz'', empathy

I interpret as ''feeling with xyz''.

Compassion I interpret as different from sympathy and empathy

because in my view compassion includes a desire to want to help,

to act in some way that helps alleviate xyz's suffering/pain/etc. etc.

*

''Get a job!'' says the man to the beggar as hurries past him.

''Have some compassion'' says the beggar to the man.

The next day the man passes the beggar again.

''Still here? Begging instead of working, I see,'' says the

man to the beggar.

''Have some compassion,'' says the beggar to the man.

Weeks go by. Hurrying down the street the man passes the beggar.

''Still a loser I see,'' says the man to the beggar.

''Have some compassion,'' says the beggar to the man.

Months go by. Carrying a box with his things in it

the man walks past the spot where the beggar used to be.

The beggar is gone. 

Standing in line at the Job Centre its finally the man's turn.

''Sir, I've lost my job, I've lost

my family, I've lost my home. I need a job,'' says the man.

As he raises his head and looks at the person behind the

glass, he recognizes him. 

It's the beggar.

''Sir, please have some compassion,'' says the man.

The beggar looks the man straight into his eyes

and then says:

''Life can be tough sometimes, it can turn on a dime.

But with a little compassion, a kindly spoken word,

 a dark and dismal day can become rather fine.''

''In my view, the best of humanity is in our

exercise of empathy and compassion.

It's when we challenge ourselves to walk

in the shoes of someone whose pain or

plight might seem so different than yours

that it is almost incomprehensible.''

(Sarah McBride)

about the image: acrylic on large canvas, yellow ink, and

painted with a cloth, not brush

Screaming? Me? I'm just expressing how I feel..........

As long as I can remember I have found it almost

impossible to relieve my inner frustrations and anguish

with the help of screaming.

As far as coping strategies goes, screaming according to

those in the know, can at times be quite useful.

Apparently screaming can lower our cortisol levels

which when we experience stress, frustration and or anxiety

are raised. Screaming, so they say, much like when 

we exercise, releases endorphins(our own bodies feel-good chemicals) 

which brings down the cortisol levels which in turn

provides us with a temporary sense of relief.

There are many different reasons as to why we scream:

Such as to express anger, rage, fear and pain but also

to express pleasure, joy and sadness/grief.

We also scream as a collective at sporting events, concerts

and protests which often can be experienced as a form

of bonding with others.

Most experts view screaming as an innate human

behaviour. I mean, we do come in to the world screaming

but our individual life-experiences also influence

the why, how and when of our ''screaming behaviours''

in congruity with our individual sensitivities.

For years I've pondered why I find it so hard to scream

even when I am experiencing really strong emotions.

Then suddenly one day I realized that I do scream

but I don't do so vocally.

I scream through the medium of art.

I scream on the canvas, I scream through music

by playing, composing or listening to it.

 I scream through expressing it with the written word,

or watching films, videos and documentaries.

 

Whether through visual representation, music, dance,

sculpture, installations, etc. etc. artists have been ''screaming''

through their art ever since the inception of it.

Though most of our communication is done by the

use of the spoken word, in my view, sometimes words just aren't

 safe or enough to convey complex and powerful emotions.

In such situations it may be more helpful to go

for some hectic exercise, put on some loud music,

watch an action movie, throw some eggs on a wall,

translate one's internal(intangible) emotions into

something tangible: gardening, painting, cleaning,

etc. etc. etc.

Or, find a safe space where you can scream your lungs

out without it interfering, hurting or disturbing anybody

else.

Though I still do most of my screaming through art

I have found that on the odd occasion when I need 

to express myself vocally, I hop in my car and go for a drive.

Park somewhere where there's nobody around and

just ''let it rip''.

''No art is silent! Because art is an original idea

and every original idea speaks, every

interesting thought screams, every art talks,

every art screams!

No art is silent!''

(Mehmet Murat Ildan)

about the images: top: Photo, left: mixed media, 

mixed media, middle: graphite.

bottom: mixed media

The opposite to love is not hate, it is indifference..........

In my view, art is a unique ''language'' that often has the ability

to speak to us much more directly than many other

languages.

Somehow, for many of us it seems to have the ability to bypass

 the analytical and pragmatic part of our brain and find 

its way straight to our ''hearts'', our emotional center's.

For the purpose of this post however, I will

focus on the visual arts.(Paintings)

Having taken part in many exhibitions, I have noticed

 there are some comments that keeps popping up.

Such as: ''Nah, I don't like it. I don't even know what

it's supposed to be."

''That's ugly. Isn't art supposed to be beautiful?''

''A child could have done a better job than that.''

''I know what I like and don't like and that's all 

that matters to me.''

OR

''I have no idea what I'm looking at but it's

making me feel all emotional.''

''This is beautiful! I just love the colours.''

''I know that this is an abstract painting but

I don't care because it speaks to me.''

''I have a feeling that it takes a lot of skill

to paint a painting like this so I appreciate

the work for that although it's not really my

cup of tea.''

Human beings, we are told, seek meaning.

We want to understand who we are, why we are here, 

and what the purpose of our life is.

Uncertainty, so says those in the know,

is the bane of mankind.

We much prefer to know stuff, to acquire as much certainty

as we can, because this makes us feel safe

and more secure.

Many of us prefer not to have to deal with abstractions,

the obscure, the esoteric, the 

concepts that are beyond what we can observe 

physically and that does not relate to our every-day lives.

Life is hard enough as it is, right?

So why do some artists feel that they need to add more

 uncertainty and abstraction to life

by painting ''difficult to understand'' paintings?

Or paintings that contain hidden meanings and

messages?

-Why do you paint such sad paintings, she asked.

-Isn't sadness part of the human experience just as

much as joy? I answered.

-I guess, she retorted.

-Let me explain, I see Joy as a friend, Sadness/Pain

as teacher and myself as the eternal student, I continued.

It's been said that ''a picture paints a thousand words'' which

I take to mean that one single painting has the potential to

 convey something quite complex and emotionally charged 

much more effectively than a multitude of words.

(Painting is just one of many different ways that we

can use to communicate with each other.)

During these (in my view) very turbulent times

it can be easy to fall prey to complacency and

compassion fatigue.

Image after image of pain, suffering and misery

 flashes at warp speed before our eyes on our I-thingy's.

Mass media churning out millions of opinion pieces

all sure of that their opinion is the correct one.

We watch live as drones and missiles strike

their targets and disintegrate cities, historic sites,

hospitals, schools, homes, etc. etc. and yes, killing totally

innocent people.

Facing all this can be overwhelming.

So overwhelming that one may ask oneself:

What can I possibly do that will change anything?

You can do whatever good and kind you can 

for those who need it and who exist in your

circle of existence.

The opposite of love is not hate,

it is indifference.

''Great things are done by a series of

small things brought together.''

(Vincent Van Gogh)

about the images: top: Graphite on large paper, 2nd: Graphite

on large paper, 3rd: Graphite on cardboard, 4th: pencil on medium sized

paper

As an artist/painter most of my work has been called ''message art''.

Why do we keep making the same mistakes over and over.............

If asked if we consider ourselves to be rational and sensible beings,

most of us would probably answer: most of the time; yes.

Yet, somehow we keep on making the same mistakes

over and over again.

History in general as well as our personal histories can

attest to that it ''is human to err''.

Not only do we make mistakes, but we keep making

them even though we already know the outcomes

from previous experiences.

Although we are supposed to ''learn from our

mistakes'' so say those in the know,

why do we far too often find ourselves

failing to do so?

According to some research, mistakes that involves

 physical pain we tend to find easier not to repeat

than mistakes that are the result of thinking/behaviour

patterns previously established through life experiences.

Those in the know suggest that we tend to create

''set notions'', templates, that we use in order to simplify

 making decisions, forming opinions and judgements.

However, these templates are often founded on

selective and sparse data/information and tend

to be more ''handy'' than helpful.

Challenging these templates (confirmation bias)

involves a shift of mindset and this demands a

lot more effort than just ''going with the gut''.

Also, sometimes we hang on to a mindset that we

know is or will lead to being a mistake

 because we have invested a

lot of time and effort in making it.

However, if we keep making the same mistake over and over

the brain starts to assume(so says those in the know)

 that what we are doing is the correct way of performing

a task and thus creating a habitual ''mistake pathway''.

Eventually this can become a permanent template

that often makes it hard for us to be able to

consider any other possibilities.

My friend looked at the painting and then asked:

-Where on earth do you get your ideas from??!!

-Hm, I'm not sure. Perhaps my willingness to humiliate

myself by making lots of mistakes allows me the 

freedom of discovery?

-What do you mean?

-Not being scared of making mistakes I feel

uninhibited to explore possibilities.

This morning I stood in front of a big, blank canvas.

So I tried something new. I filled spray-bottles with paint

and then started to spray the canvas.

I put it out in the sun to dry and when it was dry,

I put it back on the easel.

As I was staring at the canvas, 

suddenly I ''saw'' Mickey.

So, I painted him.

(A few hours later an elderly woman suddenly appeared 

in my doorway and asked if she could come in. 

Apparently she had watched me through the

 screen-door painting Mickey. 

She took one look at it and asked if it was

for sale. Sure, I said. Long story short.....I gave her

the painting. And she...gave me a box of delicious

cookies the next day.)

Mistakes, I have now concluded, are not to be feared, but

by using an open mind can be the most formidable

of teachers.

A mistake by definition happens but once,

it isn't planned it's made by mere chance. 

Sometimes we make mistakes that can have bad

ramifications and cause others pain.

Sometimes others make mistakes that can have

bad ramifications and cause us pain.

Sometimes we make mistakes that we don't 

know how to correct.

Sometimes others make mistakes that

they don't know how to correct.

But.

Sometimes we make mistakes that

opens our eyes and expands our minds.

That soften our hearts and of kindness

us reminds.

''Mistakes are a fact of life.

It is the response to error that counts.''

(Nikki Giovanni)

about the images: top: background/screen, acrylic on canvas

Graphite drawing of Teddy's, layered in Elements

Mickey: Acrylic on large canvas

Music is a relationship thing............

-Come on, play the bass, he said.

-What??? I don't know how to, I answered.

-Well, you have to because my fingers are bleeding.

Come, I'll show you, he said and dragged me up

on the stage.

If I had been sober, I would have just refused, alas, 

I was not and so, suddenly I was on stage holding

a double bass. (Upright bass)

-You pluck the strings with your right hand and

make the notes with your left. Here, let me show

you.

I knew the names of the strings so when he showed

me where I could find a 'C' and how to place my

fingers around the neck of the bass, I said to myself:

''Just wing it."

Tentatively I tried a scale and I quickly realized

that I too would have bleeding fingers by the

end of the next set.

Honestly, when the drummer and pianist got up

on the stage and yelled out the key of the song

we were gonna play I just nodded and turned down 

the volume on the amp.

One hour later I had a huge blood blister on my

''plucking finger'' but fortunately for me, the gig was over.

Well, the gig was over but my love affair with playing

the bass had just begun.

I decided that I had to get a double bass and learn 

how to play it properly.

One of the teachers at the conservatorium that I

was attending told me that I could use his upright

bass until I could buy one.

I gratefully took him up on the offer and started

to take bass lessons.

This meant not only plucking strings but also learning

how to use a bow. Which proved to be very difficult

and made a heck of horrible sound. 

But I loved playing the bass and it helped me

to understand harmony on a much deeper level.

Where ever I went I dragged the full sized 1860s 

Russian bass with me. Which was not an easy thing as

I did not have a car and had to catch busses and

the Metro everywhere.

 I mean, the bass was much taller and bigger

then I was so it was definitely a chore.

Slowly my playing progressed and although I had

blood blisters on most of my fingers, I learnt how to

deal with them so that I could keep practicing the instrument.

When you play upright bass you're sort of caressing it

and the vibrations and sound in its big body reverberates

all through yours. You feel it as well as play it.

My last year in the conservatorium however, my piano 

and flute(transverse not recorder)teacher told me that

I had to make a choice between playing the bass or

the piano and flute because the blood blisters were

not compatible with the other instruments.

On my last day at the conservatorium,

 I handed the bass back to its owner.

Many years later in a land ''downunder'',

 I played an upright once again.

But not a lovely full sized Russian,

but a key on a keyboard,

named upright bass,

digital and lifeless,

clumsy no grace.

"Whether we press a key, 

pluck a string, hit a skin or

breathe air in to an opening,

playing an instrument is a deeply

personal and intimate thing."

(Citizen Z)

 

about the image: ''The Bass player''

texters on large paper  

Stop crying with your fists!.......on coping strategies

 The minute he opened the door the smell of stale cheap wine and 

cigarettes flooded all his senses.

Though the house was silent, echoes of loud and hostile

voices rose up within him threatening to bring him to

his knees.

-Deep breaths, deep breaths, he whispered to himself.

After a few minutes of doing some deep breathing he felt his

tense body starting to relax. He hung his jacket on the

hook in the hallway, slung his backpack over the shoulder

 and then entered the ''battlefield''.

-To others this may be the living room, but to me,

this is the battlefield, he thought to himself.

In the corner of the room, hanging over the edge of

 the couch with a pool of vomit on the floor in front of her,

laid his drunken mother.

His heart sunk. Like hundreds of times before.

And like hundreds of times before, his was the job to

clean her up and get her into bed.

Like a well trained nurse he lifted his mother off

the couch and carefully carried her to the bedroom 

and put her in her bed.

The room was in a mess. There were empty wine

 caskets, beer bottles and old greasy and moldy

pizza cartons strewn all over the floor.

He let out a heavy sigh.

Though he knew it was pointless he couldn't

stop himself from whispering ; why mom?

He pulled a blanket over his mother, opened a

window and then closed the door behind him.

Walking through the hallway to the kitchen,

he noticed that the walls had a lot of new holes

in them.

-Still crying with her fists I see, he

said to himself.

As he stepped into the kitchen he was taken aback

 by the stench of rotting food and dirty dishes

and the floor was covered in broken glass and

smashed plates.

Standing there, in the middle of his mother's chaos,

he had a sudden urge to just run.

Run as far away as he could and never come back.

But he didn't, because he still had memories of a

time when his home used to be neat and tidy

and his mother, ... happy.

-Oh, dad, why did you leave, why couldn't you

have helped her?

His mother had always had anger issues but when she

was sober, she seemed to be able to keep her anger under 

control. But, then, when his sister died, everything changed.

Gone was the caring, warm mother he knew. 

While he and his father sobbed, cried and grieved the loss 

of his sister,

his mother buried her feelings. 

She pushed them so 

deep inside of herself that she could no longer

reach them. 

Well, apparently all feelings except for anger and rage

which fueled by alcohol had seemingly

become her way of dealing with her profound

 sense of sadness and loss.

*

Facing difficulties(of varying kinds) most of

us (whether we are aware of it or not), learn to

handle/manage them with the help of our

coping mechanisms/strategies.

There are different ways of defining what a

coping strategy/coping mechanism is, but

my personal definition is this:

It's our ''go-to'' thinking and behavioral method/strategy

that we use when we are faced with internal/emotional

and or external/physical issues.

As far as I can ascertain, our coping strategies often

fall broadly into one of two categories; 

healthy and unhealthy.

Unhealthy as in: it prevents rather than helps us

to resolve issues, it puts our health in danger,

it makes us do things we would never do otherwise,

it hurts other people, and rather than improving our

lives, it makes them worse.

Healthy as in: it helps us to deal with and resolve

difficult issues, it is life-affirming and guides our 

behaviours to fit with our ethics and morals,

it helps us to care about and for others,

and sticking to them, improves our lives.

Some examples of the most common ''bad'' coping strategies

are: substance abuse, denial, avoidance, 

self-harm and negative self-talk(''you're no good, 

you're useless, nobody cares anyway'').

Some examples of common ''good'' coping strategies:

dealing with rather than avoiding difficult issues,

sharing our difficult issues/emotions with someone rather

than suppressing or ignoring them, staying true to

our guiding values and ethics and being open

to view our difficulties and issues from

many perspectives.

When faced with a difficult issue/problem,

perhaps first ask yourself: in the long run,

what I am planning to do about this,

will it make things better or worse?

''Problems are not the problem,

coping is the problem.''

(Virginia Satir)

About the image: graphite on paper

(For those of you who may be wondering where I've

been for the last few weeks....... I've been experiencing

really painful back issues and so not been able to 

write posts as per usual.)

What I really wanted to say.............

In desperation and a moment of feeling as if he

can't breathe....he flings the backdoor open

and start to run. 

Only when he finds himself in the middle of

an open field does he stop.

With his heart pounding and perspiration dripping

down his face he closes his eyes and tries to slow 

down his breathing.

Though it has been a long time since he last felt

the urge to just run away, 

yet here he is, in the middle of a field

with eyes closed and flashback after flashback 

darting through his consciousness.... 

No! I refuse to go back there. I will not let the

past dictate my now. I am here now. Come on,

focus on the now!!! Open your eyes!!

Slowly he opens his eyes, lifts his gaze from the

 ground to the sky.

Once, a long time ago, he would often find comfort

and even a little hope when he allowed his eyes and mind

to get lost in the vastness of the heavens above.

Why do we keep searching the skies for an answer?

And,......should we be given an answer, what kind of 

configuration would such consist of?

As his eyes tries to penetrate and reach beyond

the temporal spheres, a sudden noise behind him

urge him back to earth, back to the ''here and now''.

He turns around and finds himself facing a large 

black bird with piercing blue eyes.

What? Is this an answer? Surely not.

The bird just stands there. Bobbing its head.

Let's take a step closer to the bird and

see what it does.

The bird bobs his head and then takes a step

closer as well.

Geez. Not scared. Is it tame perhaps?

-Hey you, not scared, are you.

-Have you come to tell me something

or........?

As the last word leaves his lips, it dawns

on him that if any one of his friends happened 

to see him standing there in the middle of a

field talking to a big black bird, they would

most assuredly assume that he had lost his mind.

Have I lost my mind? I have heard that grief can 

do strange things to you.

Slowly he takes a few steps towards the bird.

The bird tips its head from side to side,

but doesn't move.

When he is almost within an arm's length of 

the bird, he stops.

The bird still doesn't move.

Having had a very strange dream the night before

in which his friend had ''appeared'' and told him

to ''not grieve as every time he thought of him,

he was there'', he couldn't help but wonder

if the bird may have had something to do with the dream.

Because the bird, somehow, was making him feel calm

and comforted.

Only when it suddenly began to rain did the bird

move. And then,

barely making a sound, it spread its wings

and flew away.

As he stepped inside the front door,

dripping wet and somewhat confused,

he turned on the last recording he had made

with his friend and finally, wept.

What I really wanted to say to you the last

time we talked, was how much I miss you.

*

I still miss you, friend.