OK, so in my last post, I spoke of how dearly I wish to have my portrait painted. (I was reminded again of how much of my truth has been the opposite of my surface life: arguably, I haven't wanted to write about Herbert Howells or any other musician, I've wanted to be written about. I haven't wanted to live in other peoples' houses, I've wanted my own home. I haven't wanted to paint portraits, I've wanted to be painted, etc.) I breezily said it might take a day or two to process my experience with the TV program about portrait painting, and yet within a few hours of writing the post, I came "this close" to taking it down completely, something I have never done. Why? Because I was horrified by the potential narcissism of saying I want to be the subject of a portrait. The narcissism of wishing to be seen.
When you are the daughter of a father who is an off-the-scales narcissist, and you finally understand that reality, any sign that you might be in the same league is terrifying. And, of course (a related point?), we women are far more used to being the object, not the subject.
A metaphor came to me. It's a bit belabored, but forgive me. I realize that when I was a child, it felt like I was an empty black hole -- a black balloon, perhaps -- attached to my father's face. Surely, I thought, if I was literally right in front of his eyes, he'd see me. If I could play the organ well, or get good grades, or sing beautifully, or create beautiful art, maybe he would finally actually see me. But those charming, friendly-looking eyes simply couldn't see me, no matter my proximity. His ears could not hear me. With perhaps one or two exceptions over the years, my accomplishments were greeted (if at all) with a bland, "That's nice." When I first started my blog, he read two or three of the first posts, and then told me it was very nice, but he didn't understand a word I was saying. Yes, he too had a genius IQ, but my form of the written language was beyond him.
The other part of being the black balloon on your dad's face (thereby being somewhat of a leech in my own right I am mortified to grasp) is that he didn't breathe life into me, he sucked it out, sucked me dry. I was his source of oxygen (and, presumably, others were too), so my little balloon was perpetually depleted and lifeless. And because I would go out into a world that is, itself, horrifyingly like my dad, I remained rudderless and ultimately empty in this balloon-like black hole. He died in 2018, coincidentally (?) the year I returned to Duluth, and I appreciate this morning what a perfect place that was to go through the process of starting to see myself through my own eyes, and to breathe through my own nose. This dire condition undoubtedly continues down the generations simply because people can never fully actualize as their own genuine person, so the next generation cannot, and the next, and the next. Whoever we really are doesn't feel valid, or worthy of being seen, heard, or experienced, and this affects everyone around us. To the extent that my existence in this black balloon may have harmed anyone around me, I am excruciatingly sorry.
Still, even in that context, I am so glad that I didn't remove the previous post. Rather than being negative, a case could be made that it is one of the healthiest posts I've ever written. That I could finally take pleasure in being me, and look forward to seeing how other artistic and sensitive people might interpret me in a painting, has to be a step forward -- as long as it is something I would wish for other people too (and I do!) May all of us who have lived under this kind of shadow finally come out into the light, to be fully seen, appreciated, celebrated. May all of our colors and perspectives reveal our deeper Source of Love. And I welcome the Goddess out on that stage with us. How many facets of Her loving persona can we celebrate today? It is time to be the subjects of our own portrait, and to see Her as the primary subject of earth's portrait.
