Sticks + Stones

Growing up, my sisters and I had the weekend chore of picking up sticks and stones from the yard before my father mowed the lawn. Frequently, my dad's request for yardwork came right in the middle of American Bandstand, which was my lifeline to music and culture. My attempts to delay chores sent my dad into a rage. On the weekends, he started off the day with a can of Schaefer beer, so by mid-day he was unreasonable and often verbally abusive. It was hard to predict what might set him off, our fights were painful, and left me with a deep resentment towards him. 

I still remember the day I vowed to stop hating my father. We were visiting my grandparents when I had a realization about my father's life. He was the youngest of eleven children, so my grandparents were in their 70s when I was a teenager. My grandfather had suffered a stroke and wasn't able to communicate. He was grizzled and a bit frightening, but I also felt sorry for him. I began to notice that none of his children ever spoke to him, it was like he didn't exist. Over the years, my cousin and I had found countless liquor bottles wedged into the walls of my grandparent's barn and I realized that my grandfather may have been an alcoholic. Maybe that could explain why his own children would ignore him in his old age. It broke my heart and I couldn't bear the thought of abandoning my own father.

It took many years and some therapy for me to fully forgive my father for his emotionally abusive outbursts. It's still challenging to have deep conversations with him, but we have mended the pain in our relationship. While I don't always see eye-to-eye with my father (especially on politics) I love him and I'm proud that over the past few years he's given up drinking. 

images from Sticks + Stones

Stick + Stones by Joanie Biller

Failure

When I was in first grade, I had my first dramatic failure as an artist. We were making cage-like construction paper jack-o-lanterns and I made the wrong cut. Instead of a 3D pumpkin, I ended up with a pile of paper strips on my desk. I was a very meek kid and I wasn't prepared for the onslaught of criticism from my art teacher. She yelled and bemoaned my stupidity. I shrank in utter embarrassment and hated art class for most of my early education. Luckily, I had supportive art teachers in middle and high school and I found my way back to art making.

Failure is built into the creative process. If one takes risks, it's also possible that one may fail. Sometimes the things which fall apart or refuse to be resolved offer the greatest opportunity to grow and change as an artist. The collapse within the process is much easier for me to handle that the rejection from the outside! Every week I open my mailbox to find a letter declining my work for exhibition. It's a blow to be turned down and it always triggers my painful memory of applying to graduate schools.

I had worked for a few years after undergrad and waited until my late twenties to apply to graduate school. I was totally ready and excited to enter into a rigorous art program. It was my complete focus at the time and I applied to six schools around the country. I was nervous as I waited for the response letters. I had a dream that I walked down a long country road with a mailbox at the end; I opened the box to find I had been rejected from all the schools. It was a disturbing dream which proved to be a prophecy. I didn't get into school that year and it may be one of the most disappointing times in my life! 

For this instruction, I used children's scissors to cut apart failed drawings and a stack of rejection letters for teaching positions, exhibitions, and screenings. 

images from Failure

Failure by Joanie Biller

Unrequited

My life has been populated by many incidents of the unrequited. I had a habit of falling for the wrong guys, sometimes they already had girlfriends (or boyfriends), were emotionally unavailable, or maybe they didn't even know I existed! I was a real gluten for punishment and was completely indulgent in my misery. I was single for most of my twenties, so at a time when most of my friends were partnering off, I was the honorary third wheel. I was in a state perpetual pining and  self-induced emotional torture.

The only things which could distract me from my woe, were beer and dancing (and often the beer worked against me.) One night in Lancaster, as my friends and I walked home from a club, I was overcome with the urge to lay down in the middle of the street, and I did. My pals found it totally hilarious, but I was dead serious. I was overcome by the dire condition of my romantic life and it seemed like the only thing to do. It was late and there wasn't any traffic, so the gesture was mostly symbolic.

As I performed this instruction I was absolutely unnerved! I realized I no longer have the bravado of a twenty year old. I've also found love, so the sting of the unrequited is only a distant memory. 

images from Urequited