Jillian Larsen (’22): Brain Dump

February 18, 2019

His thoughts used to be a bounty that always called to me. My sloshed child-self led me to his grungy crazy red headed presence. I was only ever fond of him, never romantic. I was more into women than him, but still he was always there. The lustful bond led to my daughter, Reya, the paragon of life and love. She is the core of my sacred dreamworld, all my creations are for her. With her birthed existence emerged a new sense of serenity of spirit. One that finally I didn’t have to smoke to feel. My daughter’s father is not the man my father is, he is much less. I find myself wondering, if he was to grow out of his arrogance and sober himself, if then I could love him. I no longer fool myself pretending to fill the void with what I know he can’t. I know that he can’t feed me like I can. His parents are sweet, but dysfunctional at home with him. My daughter’s father has made me cringe almost every time he’s ever tried to seduce or console me. He is endlessly frustrating, carelessly in his own world. He works and takes classes, but lacks in social skills and any sense or charm. I have to refocus his attention onto Reya. He gets excited with his thoughts. He thinks that anytime someone is in his vicinity, they want to be enlightened by whatever the fuck he happens to be pondering. His mind is always tripping balls in one sense or another, and he struggles to communicate with anyone without pissing them off. He is irritating and ugly, though sometimes, when he is quiet and observing, he is sexy. Mostly when he limits what he says, and doesn’t touch me, I enjoy him.

I named a series of paintings of my daughter “Prelude.” I’m always trying to find a balance between caring for my daughter and making art. My daughter and my art are the loves of my life. I can’t be a mother without making time for art, and I can’t be an artist without making time for my girl.

I’ve been mixing and juxtaposing desaturated complements to further expose where and how light hits my daughter’s face. It’s hard to create when not involving her, she’s where all my happenings intersect and coincide and flow. I’ve been blocking in the separate sections of space in with opposing color, and doing so on small squared illustration boards. Different colored framed in black squares with zoomed in and out figure drawings of my baby. I like to draw her father, he is more tender feeling to me in my paintings than in real. His beard is long straggly untamed redness that fades from blonde orange to auburn. He has a deep widows peak and greasy strawberry hair. The girls I used to love are far back on the line, I don’t think of them now. Their eyes had more pull than his ever did, but they were never here as he is. Their hearts were conceded and crazed and his is solid. But what’s the use in comparison, all is lost but Rey is here. And she’s where it’s all at.

Dancing in her reflection, toys sprung she walks. She’s determined to learn, always through play she absorbs it all full of smiles. Circle cheeks she trips and gets up quick bursts of light always reaching for love. My girl gives me all the best colors, her tiny fingers form out her dreams. She’s a story teller, stirred by textures she sounds out her curiosity scribbles and babbles and bounces it off all she can. Her inner workings are incandescent. I must forever grow for her.