grace estrada

crying over cake

by grace estrada

If there is one thing I am horrible at, it is speaking about my work. I think typically this is because I find painting a particularly intimate experience, so then when I am asked to relay what it actually meant to me in that moment, I clam up. I get weird. I get almost defensive. I feel like someone pulled the rug out from under me or I’m suddenly asked to perform a pop-quiz in a class I so intensely hate. 

That being said, I will do my best to convey to you what this series means.

Over this year, I have cried so much, sometimes I forgot what I am crying about. I feel immense, deep, exquisite pain not only for the intimate circumstances and shortcomings of my own life, but for the overall general human experience. It’s pain so deep it knocked the wind out of me. I cried so hard I felt the air escaping my body and my sounds turned into this primal whaling- a sound not resembling a human crying but more like an animal being wounded. I’m not sure where it even came from. I want to cry as I write this. It’s pain and disappointment so deep it’s hard to talk about with friends or anyone close to you. How do you describe this deep primal whaling noise that you have no idea where it came from? That even you are surprised by the intensity? 

This series started to take shape as I thought about the insanity of the general population disregarding the mask mandate. People, including friends, neighbor's, and humans I generally respect, I felt had shown their true colors when they would approach me with their mask half off, or not on at all- I felt there in that moment I saw who had general integrity and sound mind and who did not. And then I cried about it. Why is something so simple, so difficult? If you knew that you could prevent thousands of people from dying by wearing cloth over your face, why would you choose to not participate in this? So I cried. A lot. 

And then I thought to myself- so I’m looking at them like they are out of their mind, a total lunatic, total buffoonery, but what if they are looking at me- like I’m the idiot? Like I’m the clown? And then I thought, we’re all just a clown. A bunch of hypocrisy  in  skin racing around pointing fingers and we are perhaps all just CLOWNS. 

It seemed like a joke. Only its not a joke. It’s real life. 

As I felt the physical and emotional desire to paint after one year hiatus, I could not paint anything other than creatures and people crying. It was as if painting something dark wouldn’t suffice. It seemed only natural to depict my most recent and most prevalent state. This felt somewhat odd because no one really wants to see a nice picture of a sad creature crying. Or a person crying. Or anyone crying. It’s horribly sad. And then the human reflex responds and wants to fix the grief and make it better. But there was something magical and liberating about having this entire series literally crying.

In addition to witnessing the collapse of kindness and general human decency, in my own life I experienced the onset of grief so strong I wondered if I would make it out of this year in one piece. I lost my dream business and closed two stores and at the exact same moment received news my five year old dog had advanced lymphoma and had a few months or weeks to live. I started to ask God why I was being punished and fed the fire that is the story that I am unworthy and defective and ultimately will be punished and have good things taken from me. I feel like crying even when good things are happening- I feel pain even when there is a glimpse of hope- I feel almost unable to be fully present because of the extremities happening around us. I turn on the news and hear another person of color has been murdered. I cry. I put the phone down to remember I am safe in my home and not being  violated and killed because of the color of my skin. I cry for this. Why am I safe and many others not? Why has this headline become normal? I cry at this new normal. At one point I tried to have empathy for the ‘opposition’ (people who supported the last president, Qanon, the blue lives matter groups, people who generally incited violence) I tried to envision If I were a person in their circumstances with their beliefs, how would I feel right now? Am I the clown? Am I the fool? 

Are we all the clown?

And this brief examination was followed by the quick realization that I believe anyone who stands for violence and the oppression of someone who looks different than them is ultimately not well. But for the brief moment, I asked myself If I were the fool. As I climbed my way out of the hole that is grief, I felt lighter and less like doom- and after a year of intensity began to paint again. I guess that’s why I literally paint clowns crying. Everyones crying or in pain, no matter which side of the story you are on. So maybe we’re all just fucking clowns crying together. And then you stand up, dust yourself off, and move on. 

Crying Over Cake.

end.