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May 19, 2006

Go Shoot a Peacock - The Story of My Shame

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Yesterday I received a self addressed package in the mail. It was returned less than a week after I mailed it. My portfolio was rejected.--- summarily. The worst of it was that the gallery didn't even keep it a day for consideration. Really, I don't know how artists do it.

It took me twelve hours to open the package. Thank heavens there was a polite kiss-off note included, wishing me good fortune in my future endeavors. Now the trick will be to conquer my shame, pick up the pieces of my shattered ego, duct tape my punctured narcissism, and move forward into those future endeavors. It's hard to retain a snappy attitude in the face of rejection.

There is, of course, the comfort of the blog. The fantasy that someone, other than myself, is looking at my product, delighted by my eye, amused by my witticisms, impressed by my political insight, resonating to my pathos. It is the fantasy of between ten, and thirty two million of us. Quite delusional, now that I think of it.

I know, I will simply ignore the rejection. I'm fairly good at that.

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But of course, the package was delivered on Thursday night, just to kick start my weekly Friday Fit. Wouldn't you know, sychronicity being what it is, my Ladies Group was meeting at 9:30 AM. We began the group with a Tibetan Singing Bowl Duet in low C (heart) and D (solar plexus), because one of us purchased a lovely quartz singing bowl when visiting Santa Fe last month. The sound went right to my feet and legs, which are much improved, but not perfect.

Our leader began with a little talk about the discomfort of dealing with parts of self that are not integrated --a most timely topic.

Here's why its uncomfortable, in my opinion. It's really difficult to step back enough to observe your own pain, while simultaneously feeling it, respecting your resistance to feel it, and maintaining patience with the process. It takes practice.

We have a new group member (having lost our dear drummer in a dissociated part accident)-- a landscape painter, whose mother lived in Santa Fe for the last twenty years of her life. Synchronicity. As an artist, she had much to say to me about exhibitions, and the energy friends create at an opening, as well as the pain of viewer disinterest, or dislike, especially when your little soul is out there, dangling in your product.

Then the group set to work on me, even though it seemed my issue was the least pressing of anyone's. I think I took up too much time. Rather than raging, my unintegrated little part was feeling mighty blue, collapsed, despairing folded up, shamed, dispirited (the perfect word). Oh well. The angels came, with their lovely soprano trills, as did the bears, and the Indians, but it was hard to move the despair, which has a place so close to my heart. With everyone's help, I managed to joggle it sufficiently. I also did some lovely coughing and gagging.

I listened to Esther Hicks on way home. Perfect. She was talking about her book making the New York Times Best Seller List. After awhile, checking the list daily lost it's thrill. In fact, it became quite unpleasant. . The real thrill comes from feeling good while you're deliberately creating. She cautions against getting confused by listening to someone else's GPS system -- sometimes six at once. Follow your own guidance.

Later, in another supportive setting, I understood what really hurt about this experience -- which painful old wound it touched. So what if a hip downtown gallery rejected my photos? Am I counting on my photography as a way of making money? Do I want to be part of a scene, other than the one I have? Do I want to spend my time sweating over a hot printer? Not exactly.

Here's what I really want to do. I want to heal the part of me that was mightily squashed whenever I did or said anything that felt like differentiation to my poor mother, so it doesn't keep falling out of sorts. You can imagine that my mother's technique may have had an rather negative effect on my creativity. Not only was my originality stunted, but I cowered in anticipation of the punishment that came from showing my autonomous, authentic self. Early on, I decided never to do it -- that is, if I could help it.

So I witnessed how devastated the little part of me was by my mother's rejection and punishment. I felt the hurt and despair (not my favorite step), then I felt appreciation for all of the parts of myself that keep me away from those dreadful feelings. I decided that everything was going just as it should, and determined to approach this process (integrating dissociated parts of self) with curiosity and patience. I also took responsibiity for the fact that I sent my pictures out from a (slightly) downtrodden place. What kind of response did I expect? I am now awarding myself a girl scout badge.

This entry is getting out of hand, but I need to remember what I decided --maybe not so publicly, but what the hell. I appreciate that the rejection was a perfect trigger for the Friday Dissociated Parts Retrieval Project. It was a mirror to my own lack of confidence. I know because it landed so hard. Otherwise, I could have dismissed it easily.

In the meantime, I got a print portfolio together, so I can show my work in a clump, off-line. I decided to print a couple of large (2x3) photos and frame them. I am considering posting an on-line gallery somewhere. Then, if someone finds me in that pile, it was meant to be. Right now, I don't want to expend my energy pursuing an exhibition. My job is to continue to do what I am inspired to do, without being thrown off track by gathering up the energies of others.

Okey, dokey.


Photo note: Painted peacock perched precariously above the entrance to a delicatessen. A metaphorophoto of sorts.

I'm publishing this unclickied. You know I could have gone to town on this one. Check back later -- I will try to add emotional images, then again , I might not.

Posted by Dakota at May 19, 2006 06:17 AM