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 Sep 2014
L A Lamb
I don’t want to be like Plath, Woolfe, or any other female writer who is categorized by confessing depression on paper. I want to describe my subjectivity and contrast it with objectivity, record reality as I perceive it, and analyze my most relevant moments; I want to collect soothing ones, painful ones, and all outside and in between, arranging my observations and most prominent memories into a work of art. I want to create something heinous and beautiful, an interpretation of a specific type of life where I am riddled through the spaces, cracks, unfinished bits, rushed strokes and flaws, filling what’s unsaid with myself, where I am what’s reflected. My life is a mosaic where everything is broken and together, beautiful, but nowhere near perfect, and I cannot stop staring at what I’ve created from what has been provided. The pieces I arranged I did so with variety; some were carefully placed, some impulsively stuck, and some I smashed myself, to be destructive and see what it would look like after. Moments, like assorted glass, are sometimes broken, smooth, colorful, jagged, curved, sharp and dull, but when they are placed together, their individual qualities are no longer emphasized, and the importance lies in the whole piece of what is created. A mosaic is the essence of the artist with the ability to reflect the artist’s design, like a mirror.

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