Some wounds make no sound.
The face remains still. The voice does not tremble.
The movements continue.
People often think I’m calm.
I speak little, I rarely cry, but my
storms have never needed to become
visible.
They pass through the silence.
What people see of me does not convey the extent of
what I am going through.
I may be sitting in front of a sheet of paper, almost motionless,
whilst my whole body is tense.
The drawing begins in this contradiction.
My hand does not convey what I am feeling. It
is subject to its fluctuations.
I press harder. I slow down. I linger.
Elsewhere, the movement quickens.
I do not seek out these changes.
I simply observe them.
My drawing can remain precise even whilst I am
upset.
It can be meticulous even whilst I feel
unsettled.
It can seem calm even whilst my body is
not.
Reality has fractured.
This fracture is invisible.
I do not seek to depict it.
I observe its consequences in my drawing: the
pressure exerted on the tip, the speed of the
hand, the time spent in one place, the moment
when I stop.
What is happening inside does not appear as a
picture.
It acts.
The drawing does not reveal what my face
might conceal. It allows me to observe how an
invisible state affects a visible gesture.
I may appear calm whilst being shaken by
a jolt.
These two realities exist at the same moment.
My storms have never needed to
become visible.
They are already there in the way my hand
touches the paper.
