She is an imaginary girl

This girl from Arkansas was influenced by David Lynch

Dear Readers, Art Lovers, and Friends,

It was fitting that the soundtrack to last week's post was "Dark Night of the Soul" featuring David Lynch.

I was so shocked to hear of his death that I actually gasped out loud when I read the news in a message from my brother Sean. I wrote a few friends in particular who I knew would be upset and then I shed a few tears myself. I started watching old clips and reliving memories that revolved around David Lynch's work and art.

Like many others, I took to the internet to share my feelings:

"I'm so sad about this loss. David Lynch gave us so much vision and new ways to see. He offered up validation and permission. Meditations on darkness and love. Twin Peaks beaming into the house when I was in high school was as important to me as witnessing the dawn of MTV when I was child. Style, colour, art, mystery - everything was suddenly available to me. I could understand my own sensibilities and appreciate them even in Arkansas."

Looking back, I realise how much he had influenced me in the 80s and 90s and how he continues to influence me today. How often I quote his work. He was and will forever remain a true artist and an original. We are so lucky for all he gave us. 

Thank you, David Lynch for sharing your vision.

Two Sad Clouds, mixed media on paper, Megan Chapman, 2024

Temptation, mixed media on paper, Megan Chapman, 2024

How can we best show up in this crushing world with our own singular visions? How can we support each other and ourselves in our purest most expansive forms? How can we bring more delight, humour, wonder, and understanding into this world?

Let's catch some ideas.

Wintering

Here's some music to take on the journey. 

I kept all your letters

Sometimes I wonder if I should have a separate place to write things that aren't about art. I wonder if that would make it easier to always write "on time." But then if I was writing somewhere else there would be no exact time to do it and there would be nothing here on "Friday."

So here I am, not exactly wanting to write about art. There are two things I sort of want to write about. The first is that I picked through someone's flat moving remnants outside their building. They were kind enough to take a photo and share it online - a community offering before it would be taken to a charity shop. I picked up 2 bags of castoffs. I took photos of my haul and shared it with friends and family. I tallied up its retail value. I commented that it was obviously the possessions of a much younger woman but with the taste of my inner child. I even took a stack of her hot pink and yellow coloured paperbacks - 8 of them in the pile. And this is maybe where it ventures into art. The concept around methodically reading another person's books, void of choice - like a street assigned reading list.

I get a bit excited by limitations.

I get overwhelmed by all the choices at the grocery store or in shops. But, I love the treasures left on the street or in the racks of the charity shop. I love the fated aspect of it. I usually find exactly what I need and when I need it. I needed a boost and I got a second Christmas from her leaving offerings, complete with mustard yellow low top Converse All Stars exactly in my size. She wrote on the toes of both shoes, "life's too short to waste" in black pen. 

I noticed the faded mantra the next day. 

I feel like I have wasted my fair share of life but I also feel we are probably meant to or maybe there is no way to actually waste it. I hope that's the case. However it all works out, I was glad to receive her message.

So I am reading her books and living with her things and wishing her well on her move. 

The second thing I sort of wanted to write about was some local genealogy research I have been doing but I can't write about it poetically. Genealogy is mostly frustrating, with flashes of magic here and there - stories and family ghosts pulling me along into a puzzle of history and dumb luck. An hour becomes a whole day and I can't look away. It all points back to the tip of my new shoes. Am I wasting my life? Surely not.

I like to think the ancient family knows I am looking for them and that they are glad I am here. They are as curious about me as I am of them. 

They whisper, there is art in all of this.