How I fell in love with abstract art

Abstract art is a surprisingly controversial subject.

There are all kinds of opinions about it, from people who say things like “my two-year-old could do that!” to people who read into every mark made on a piece of art as if it was placed there by a demigod.

I was somewhere in the middle. I understood there had to be something to it, but I didn’t “get” it for most of my life.

The seed of my love of abstraction was planted back in 2016 when I took a painting class at Cabrillo College. We made “white” paintings, where we were only allowed to use one color - white. We could do whatever else we wanted - playing mostly with texture. It was a challenge for me.

But it started to open up the possibilities of the pleasure of texture alone.

Because of that class, I began to appreciate paintings on a new level. I began to see the brush strokes as individuals, as trees in a forest, and could appreciate abstract art in a new way because of this revelation.

Where once I was impressed by realism, I now was taken with color and texture and light and layers.

I still didn’t have the emotional component of art figured out. I couldn’t understand emotive work - mine never “turned out” or felt very cathartic. This was possibly because I didn’t like my default emotional state at the time and found dwelling in it exacerbated the feelings I was having.

I was too lost in my emotions to be able to describe them visually, nor did I really have a desire to sit with them long enough to do so.

I was too close to my emotions, and had difficulty separating myself from them enough to be able to put them on paper. I also quit journaling during this time.

I think most importantly, I was unable to validate myself in such a way as to justify spending more time, energy, and materials on my own dark state of mind.

Looking back, I now realize that painting has always been an emotional escape for me. When I felt like I was drowning in doubt, I needed something tangible and safe to hold onto - a mountain or a very large rock in the desert presented itself as a wonderful, stable subject to meditate on and recreate in paint.

Of course, now I need a way to decompress after taking care of my beloved little baby (who is not always the sweetest boy, let me tell you) or to mentally prepare for a long day with him. Abstraction has given me a place to play and unwind rather than tighten up and create something representational.

Now, 7+ years later, I feel I’ve come into myself, and I feel much more settled and secure when the waves of emotions threaten to topple the boat of my being (Lexapro certainly helps). Abstract art is no longer a threat to my emotional state, in fact, it helps me sort through my shit sometimes.

Now, I can gaze out at the world with softer eyes and just revel in the riotousness of life. Abstract art has offered a space to remain in that reverie.

I will also say, it’s hard to be creative and artistically “free” when you’re depressed. It’s easier to work from a photo and shut your brain off on some level (at least, that was once my approach to art) than to dip one’s toes into the creative abyss of the universe which is somehow miraculously accessible to a single human psyche.

Maybe abstract painters are happier, healthier people? Or maybe I’m just projecting my own experience.

Either way, I’m just happy to be where I’m at, slinging paint around with joyful abandon.