Falling in love, a bowl of oranges, a Neruda poem.
Some prompts submitted for the newest paintings in the Scales collection are a light-hearted pleasure to create.
But lately, the submissions arriving in my inbox explore the darker corners of the human experience. They often speak of inexplicable grief, sorrow, and pain.
The painting I’m sharing today, submitted by our community member Bron, is no exception.
It’s about rage.
Truth be told, I have been wrestling with the ethical implications of exploring these darker themes. What exactly is the purpose of immortalizing someone's deepest anguish or darkest demon in painting? Could it prevent wounds from healing, rendering them perpetually open and raw? Could I be doing more harm than good?
Despite these reservations, I’ve been going full steam ahead. And, the painting Bron and I completed—an emotionally taxing, soul-baring process for both of us—has me convinced of its profound value.
Without further ado, here is the story of “Emotional Synesthesia”.
The Prompt
Barrel- Aged Rage, submitted by Bron
The first feelings of rage bubbled from the recesses of myself when I was in high school.
There we were, the proper American family trying to get dinner at our favorite American diner, and my stepmother, worried about the cats again—or was it the dogs? Or the rats? Any excuse to not be around my dad’s children. There we were, four innocent kids, watching our grown-up and responsible parents fight like toddlers—hitting, screaming, throwing tantrums— all grandstanding adult conniption fits.There in the diner was the moment when I got my first taste. Rage. A culmination of abandonment and anger at the world spewed forth. A release that was addictive, satisfying, hurtful, spiteful, and spiritual all at once. All the life events my father missed. All the lies, deceit, forgotten birthdays, missed opportunities—all made seemingly better for an instant with an escape into rage.
Each bubble of rage felt like it was fermenting inside me, growing more potent with time. Like a barrel of whiskey aging in a cellar, my rage matured, becoming richer and more complex over time. Every disappointment, every slight, added another layer, another bubble in this barrel of seething anger.Several more years of this typical American life, and I moved on to the next cornerstone of American life—college. My father pushed so hard for college it was crazy. I found myself resisting just to spite him, but eventually, gave in to the pressure and started touring colleges to find an escape from the hell I was living in. I found one that felt special, and looked forward to this next step.
Then, one day my father took me on a car ride, began a cryptic lecture about Loyalty, Duty, Respect, Selfless Service, Honor, Integrity, and Personal Courage. Turns out, it was a dress rehearsal for another level of disappointment. He told me that we didn’t have the money for college, so I was to join the National Guard at his behest. Another bubble of rage.Fast forward: I am in the desert. No, I am in Hell. No, it is a forgotten abyss where time stands still while the rest of the world embraces progress. It is early in the morning, and I get perverse satisfaction from watching the death of God. Waves of pleasure undulate but are short-lived: the Abyss winks back, opens its great maw, and reveals the true terror: cosmic purposelessness. More bubbles of rage.
20 years... 20 fucking years it has been distilling. The drug is so damn good I relish in slights, mishaps, and misfortunes of daily life, just so the deep-seated demon can drink, and drink, and drink.
Finding Common Ground
Bron couldn’t have known, but asking me to create a painting about anger—let alone rage—was like asking a snake to gallup.
I just don’t have the legs for it.
I could write a thesis about why my deficiency exists, but half of it would be hyperbole and the other half would put you to sleep. All you need to know is: anger’s tough for me. So naturally, I felt confronted by Bron’s story, unqualified and emotionally impotent.
How could I do justice to such raw and vulnerable writing?
I added it to the bottom of my list. I’d get around to it, I thought to myself.
Then, unexpectedly, Bron shared something else that changed everything, seemingly unrelated: a poem illustrating his son’s journey through sensory processing disorder. In the poem, Bron spoke of his son’s challenges—everyday occurrences assaulting his senses like an unrelenting storm—and the only thing that truly soothed him: water.
I knew Bron’s poem was intended as a prompt for an entirely separate painting. Yet, reading it, I saw a possibility for convergence: Bron's rage against the cruel, senseless chaos of life, his son's overwhelm at the cacophony of the world, and my own condition—dubiously blessed with a heart that feels not a river of emotion, but a deluge, often rendering me swept away, disoriented, tangled up in blue.
Both together and alone, the three of us—Bron, his son, and I—stood in this liminal shore, each accompanied by our own demons, grappling with the overwhelming intensity of being alive, waiting for the horizon to appear.
This thought sparked an idea.
What if the painting was ultimately about reorientation? To paint the darkness of suffering in the bottom layers, and then douse it with blues and golds, symbolic of water, illumination, and understanding? What if the process of creation was less about the painting and more about discovery: to brave the heart of darkness and find a pathway out together?
The Process
Catharsis. There is no other word for what happened when Bron and I came together to create the painting. Although it transpired over the course of a single day, it felt like years of soul excavation.
The canvas began as a swath of golden light, symbolizing our unadulterated state as human beings—before we realize our separateness—imbued with light, compassion, and innocence. With each layer of paint we added, we traversed Bron’s life stages: from the loss of innocence to disillusionment, from the harsh realization that the world can often be unfair to the culmination of rage. Each layer represented years of life experience, a topography that shaped the layers that followed, creating a visual history of his journey.
As the painting evolved, Bron contributed his more insights, each revealing more of his story. The experience blossomed into an exploration of connection—pure and undiluted. There we were, two strangers who chose to bravely open our hearts, profoundly connect, and create something honest together.
We were doing it. And it was changing us.
The emotion moving through me was unspeakable. By the time we had arrived at the expression of rage, my hands were shaking.
Rage. That thing I allegedly knew nothing about. It surged through me. I was shook.
Because to my utter surprise, it didn’t feel foreign. In fact, I instantly recognized it as an old companion. The only difference between Bron and me? While he befriended his rage, feeding it and letting it roam freely at times, I starved mine, confined it to the deepest dungeon of my psyche, where quietly wreaked havoc, shredding my furniture and pissing all over the floor.
This new experience of rage—with its inexplicable energy—moving freely through me (maybe for the first time) was at once beautiful and terrifying.
But, the true transformation came after we moved into the healing phase of this work, wherein we incorporated the metaphors of water and light.
While listening to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, and being guided by continuous input from both Bron and his son, I began to add layers of color to the work.
Here is a progression of the work from start to finish:
At some point, we decided that the painting was complete.
In the completed work, you can still see the rage, the desolation, the hopelessness in the bottom layers, peaking through. But it lives within the context of a greater story—a story about self-realization and compassion.
What I love the most is the desert in the background, with heat and might emanating from the horizon. It’s a resonant image both for myself—having run across Death Valley on foot in blistering heat—and Bron, stationed in the deserts of Iraq.
The Revelation
In the days that followed, the painting continued to work on us. We continued to share insights, trying to wrap our minds around what the heck actually happened. Bron’s insights, which I’ve shared below, are profound.
The Take-Away
The realization that’s hit me the hardest? At the risk of sounding preachy, I’m gonna share. It’s a simple truth, and it’s been hitting me over the head like a sack of bricks, and, hell, maybe someone out there needs to hear it, too.
When you let go of your identity and fully experience the perspective of another—if only for a moment—so much more is gained than just intimacy, trust, and camaraderie. You receive objectivity, clarity. You see through your own bullshit. Blind spots disintegrate. And, when you truly see the other person? I mean, TRULY SEE THEM? The compassion you cultivate for them spills over into your own cup. Their healing becomes your healing.
This is what I’ve been experiencing with these prompts. And, frankly, it’s changing my life.
But you don’t need to be an artist or a therapist to practice this. You just need to be present. That’s it.
Over & Out.
Orders of Business
Thanks for reading!
You might’ve noticed, my newsletters have all been slightly different. I am really nailing down my process. I want to create a consistent experience for you, the reader. And, well, it takes a little fine tuning! Any feedback is greatly appreciated! Shoot me a message!
Want to go through this process with me (like Bron), and collaborate on a work together? Don’t be shy. Submit your prompt!
Also, starting in August, I’ll be taking on new clients for the Soul Expression Process and Creative Mentorship! Hit me up to find out more.
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