For a person with any kind of anxious disorder, critique day feels like putting your head on the chopping block. Not only is it required to speak in a formal setting, but your artistic guts are on display for judgement. It's painful, but there's a sweetness to it. It's sadomasochism at its best.
In life I am severely prone to unnecessarily complicating EVERYTHING (like this sentence). My first metals piece in six years had to be something extraordinarily difficult, or else it just wouldn't be me. I smithed a prego belly out of a sheet of copper, complete with fetus and umbilical cord. I melted solder everywhere. I had a bazillion flat spots. Best piece EVERRRRR. Everyone else seemed pretty on top of their game. I always feel like I'm playing catch-up. This is an ongoing theme.
The piece came from my ongoing struggle with postpartum depression. It was more difficult to talk about than I expected. Lynne gave me until Tuesday to work out the technical problems.
Survived!
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