Invented Audience

Finding solid proof of, his parents’ love for him, in his childhood years, when he was, sexually, abused by his nanny and her families, from a blog online, translated, by me…

Back in college, my arts professor always asked the class, “Who are you painting for?”, back then, I was shocked, shouldn’t it be, you?  Are there, someone else who exists in the same space as we, that I can’t see?  Or, are there, spirits, lingering in this room?  This caused that sense of thrill in me every time my professor asked me the question.  And, I’d, wondered, is my professor, possessed by some spirit?  And so, I’d, answered her, unsteadily, “uh…you…are my audience…” And every time, he’d, looked, troubled.  He must feel, that he’d, bumped into, some sort of, an unseen spirit, and I too, feel that way.

memories of childhood abuse…

After several failed attempts to get his points across to me, he’d, altered the methods of communicating with me, “Who are you, painting for?  What do you want the person you’re painting for to understand about this piece?”, and, I sort of, got it, it was, a technique, to help me get better, with the techniques of my paintings.  As I’d, started, applying this concept as I created my art, it’d felt, a bit, weird, and yet, very, familiar too.  There were, some voices, slurred, within me, that’s, become, more audible, and they’re, getting louder and louder, and louder inside of my mind.

It was, my father’s voice, telling me, I could’ve, done a whole lot better, you’re just, not good enough, as an, artist!  And these words, they’d, turned and churned, inside of me, repeatedly, even as I wasn’t working on my paintings, the voice would surface, to annoy me.  And I can’t seem to, get rid of it, it got, everywhere in my life.  You can’t make good grades, because you’re not good enough!  You’re not good enough, that’s why you’re having difficulties, understanding things!  You’re not good enough, you’re, a FAILURE!  I could no longer tell, if I being not good enough, had made me into, a failure, or, are my failures due to me, not being, good enou9gh anymore.  It’d just, made me feel, very awful.

I’d tried, tuning the voices out, but I couldn’t.  All I could do was, maintain my cool on the surfaces, when those voices, appeared.  Suppressing these feelings became, my second nature already.  It was like a balloon, filled with water, trying hard, not to explode, to not allow myself, to feel a thing!

like this???  Photo from online…

I’d, stayed in that condition a very, long time, and it’d, extended, until after my graduation too.  The professor asked us, to call up the audiences inside of our selves, but, I don’t have a clue, who it was, that I’d, conjured up.  All I knew, what it’d, felt, familiar, like, I’d done it, every single day, for my past.  When I’d, felt so lonely, in my nanny’s home, I’d, imagined a pair of eyes, looking at me.  I’d, talked to them, and, they’d, offered me the console I’d, needed.  He will tell you, that one of these days, you will, finally go away.  And, when you needed him, he will be there, to talk to you. 

After I’d, passed through the long period of waiting, and finally, returned home, those eyes, became, substantial, although, they don’t like me one bit.  But, at least, they were, real.  In order to make them happy, I’d, kept those eyes, deep, inside of me, looking at me, constantly.  I’d, wondered, will I please them, if I, do this or that?  Would I make them mad, if I do this?  The thought was, real, but, there was, something else that’s, missing.

My father is a writer, and, he writes about me.  As the stranger guests came, and pointed at me, stated, “you’re, his third child, you did this or that in the article”, I’d told the strange guests, that it wasn’t me at all, that I didn’t do that.  That was not, how my father had, related to me, then, something changed in their eyes, they’d become, distrusting, awkward, but soon enough, they’d, returned back to the way they were from before, and, ignored, our conversations.

I am, the masterpiece they expected to see, and when I wasn’t, I’d lost the values, what they wish to see when they looked upon me.  And, if I wanted to be paid attention to, I’d have to, lie, with my father, but I’d, not wanted to.  Because there’s, another pair of eyes, looking.  It was, Jimmy, from my nanny’s house.  The only shepherd dog who ever, loved me, whom I considered, my only family, waiting on me, to return home, to live with him, to be with him.  And if, I’d, admitted to my father’s lies, then, that would be me, murdering the memories I had, of him, and that is, something I would NEVER do.

I’d known from a young age, that I was, a piece of art on display, and everything about me was, fake.

being, silenced!  Photo found online…

The real me was, always waiting, waiting, waiting for love, to finally arrive, to understand, and soothe my sorrows and pains.  I’d, never given up on this hope, but this wish was, put on hold too long, making reality, and make-believe become, too burdensome, and so, I chose, to forget.

Many years later, as I’d talked, of these lost memories with my wife, it was, when I was three, after the vacation was over, I was, picked up from my nanny’s, to go home.  It was sunny outside, with the bluest skies I ever saw, and yet, what awaited me indoor was, this strange place called, “home”.  My nanny told me, that my mother didn’t want me anymore.  That I was, one of their child.  I’d, hated her so much, for saying that.  But I couldn’t, deny what she’d stated, because I was, forced, to stay with my nanny and her families.  And even as my parents came and picked me up to go home, I’d, feared, that my nanny’s words were, true, that I was, an unwanted child of the family.

But that day, my father was, extraordinarily, gentle with me, he’d, made the papers with me, we’d pasted the papers we’d made to the walls, to get them dried.  I’d, accidentally, torn the pages up, started crying, my father, told me it was okay, and, patched up the page again.  And in the end, he’d, bound up the pages together, into a small sketch book, told me it was, for me, to draw on.  I was, really happy on the day, as that small sketch book proved, that they really, did care for me, that they’d, loved me, that I was, theirs.

It was, a blank sketchbook, for me to draw in, but I didn’t, want to waste it by, drawing on it, to make it run out of pages.  There wasn’t any sketchbooks for me to draw in at my nanny’s, if I’d, drawn in the pages of this one, then, I wouldn’t, have anymore pages to draw on anymore.  And so, I’d, stored this, small sketch book, at the bottommost layer, of my toy box, at the bottommost drawer, of my memories.

What, does art meant to me?  What does, creation mean to me?  For a very long time, it’d become, why I was placed here, on earth, the reason, for my existence.  I’d often feared, that my creations, were of, no value, that I wasn’t, worth anything in the world.  As I’d, finished telling my wife that memory, it’d, dawned on me: I was, afraid that nobody would, affirm my art, like how I’d, feared that, I was, a child of my nanny’s household.  Back then, all the proof I had, of my own parents’ love for me, was that, small sketch book, that I was, truly, theirs.  That young child’s hopes and fears were, tied up together, to the point, that I no longer know, where my work ended, and I began.

Creation was, with, such strong impact on me.

I’d talked about the memories with my wife, and after each and every time I’d, shared something with her, I’d asked, “Are my feelings, real?” and she’d, hugged me tightly, and say to me, “Yes they are, you’d, had it real rough as a child!”

And that, is how this man, slowly, moves beyond the fact, that he was, raped by his nanny and her family, and, he’s still, recovering from the sexual abuse of his younger years, but knowing, that his parents didn’t just abandon him with his nanny and her family, that they had, loved him, that was, a key step, to his, overcoming his childhood traumas, which he’s still, currently working on right now.