Catch in my Voice

I was taking an online painting class with Katie Ruiz last week and she said she cried the first time she saw a Munch painting in person.  The first time I saw Birth of Venus by Botticelli at the Uffizzi in Florence, Italy I wept as well. I was in my early twenties and I rarely ever shed a tear.  Venus was so beautiful, but I also couldn’t believe that I somehow had arranged my life in a way that allowed me to be standing in front of it. A great master painted this, the world has worshipped it, and here I was a part of the world’s collective story of beauty.  Standing there with my heart in my throat feeling like I have stood where my people have stood.

The wild thing about it is that I had been to great museums before; SFMOMA, the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam and a few others.  I had seen paintings by artists I admired much more than Botticelli.

Why did this beauty make me openly weep in public?  Why do we “believe” some people more than others? When does art move you?  When do you feel something?

Sometimes you feel an ache in your chest or a catch in your throat and you feel everything. As an artist, I wonder about how much I need to share in order for the catch in my throat to show up in yours.  Maybe it’s a frequency that some people tap into, a sound, a color or a time in our lives that makes us more vulnerable.

When I write personal articles, friends will often wait until we are alone to say how heartfelt they found my words. I wonder if expressing how something made you feel is as vulnerable as the act of creation.

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When I was little, I heard a song that told me: “There will be sad songs to make you cry. Love songs often do. They will touch the heart of someone new, saying I love you ….”

 There is a story I’ve told a dozen times or so that my body won’t let me tell without breaking apart.

 When we were young my brother fell in love with a girl named Jenny.  When she sat down for dinner with our family you could mistake her for my sister.  I didn't have a sister but it felt like it when we were all sitting together. She had blonde hair and blue eyes and was quick to smile at my brother.  Inevitably she would stand up and she was quite short compared to us and it was obvious she wasn’t a Hansen.  

Early on Chris told us that Jenny had cystic fibrosis and she would never live to be old.  I was shocked and scared. Love seemed so scary just on its own. He said he could die crossing the street tomorrow.  Nothing is guaranteed and he wasn’t going to take the chance of missing out on loving Jenny.

 So, they loved each other and some years later she died.  

 Sometimes this story comes up because I wear her engagement ring.  I love it and I’m proud to be a part of this story. 

 I never danced at Chris and Jenny’s wedding.  We never had toasts that welcomed Jenny into our family.  We didn’t take family portraits besides Jenny’s family. Not because they didn’t love each other and not because we didn’t have our arms open but because Jenny had a preexisting health condition. And she couldn’t change her status on her insurance.

At Jenny’s celebration of life, where her friends passed out sunflower seeds, my brother spoke in front of everyone.  He said I have one regret about my life with Jenny. I never got to say in front of all of you how much I loved her. He looked up to the sky and put his hand up and said, “Jenny I do”.

That was the only “wedding” moment our family had of their love story.  Watching my kind-hearted brother tell his dead love that he feels married to her.

Those are the words that my body only says through tears: “Jenny, I do.”

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I’ve always admired people who are willing to share very honest tales.  People who can say something right out loud. Sometimes the very personal becomes universal and the ache or catch in someone’s voice takes us home to our own aches. 

When I think back to art school, I always remember some advice that Jack Fulton gave me.  Do what you are interested in, live life, and it will make your photography more interesting.  If you like soccer, play soccer, if you love the ocean, go swim in it.  

The irony is that I had lived a lot of life at 24, but I hadn’t learned to be able to share it out loud.  I had learned to hide and silence my voice. I wouldn’t talk about where I came from, only that I had overcome it.  I could not tell you anything about my emotions because even the present ones lived at least 12 feet behind me, and I was never going to look back.  

I took images though.  I was telling my story in the fullest way I knew how.  I wasn’t strong enough to let you hear the break in my voice. I was pretty sure that showing you my heart would make it collapse in on itself never to be heard from again.

It took decades for me to feel like it’s ok for me to feel too much.  Now is one of those challenging times when the world is hurting and I have moments of complete overwhelm.  It’s hard to sleep and I’m scared for everyone who is hurting.  

I love Alanis Morissetttes song, “I will be good”. I will be good, even if I’m overwhelmed…I will be loved…. Even if I am overwhelmed….

 So, the last two weeks, I’ve been working hard and making a little time for art.  I want to give it a chance to save me - like it always does - even if I don’t have the words.

Botticelli didn’t have words either and yet he still holds my hand and reminds me I have a place in this world as an artist. I come from a great line of storytellers and my voice and the catches in it are getting stronger and stronger.  I belong to the people who tell stories, make art, share their voice, stand up for other people and say the things only art can say.