Hello again! I’ve been eager to finish this artwork before posting for the month. I’ve been quite busy, but it’s been a choice of my own. Over the past three weeks, I created four digital artworks, which meant that this piece kept getting set aside. With some conventions coming up, I decided to add a few new illustrations inspired by Sarah J. Maas’s ACOTAR series, especially since I had some success selling art based on it. These new pieces will make their debut next week in Columbus, Ohio, at the Oddities and Curiosities Expo.
I named this artwork "Bardo." In Buddhism, "bardo" refers to the transitional state between life and death. My dear friend Kevin has spoken about this in relation to his battle with cancer. As a former Buddhist practitioner, I was already familiar with the term, and hearing it again inspired me to create something. I used three etching prints made from a copper plate—these were the prints that didn’t quite turn out dark enough. I applied some acrylic paint to them, which is typically something I avoid because I was concerned the paint wouldn’t adhere well to the thin paper. However, I was gentle with my application, and it worked surprisingly well. I felt that the imagery complemented the wrinkling caused by the paint, so I decided to follow through with the idea.
Life is cyclical, and nature reflects that cycle. The contrast of black and white symbolizes nothingness or the life yet to come. In temperate climates, plants experience the seasonal cycle: the birth of spring gives way to summer, which transitions to autumn, and finally winter—where everything sleeps in nothingness until the cycle begins anew. Life mirrors this ethereal cycle, as everything is interconnected and dependent on one another. Each being has a purpose.
A few weeks ago, Kevin and I discussed the topic of dying. I asked him if he was afraid and if it was alright for me to ask. He said he was not afraid of dying but rather concerned about how his loved ones would cope with his absence. He spoke about whispering love through the bardo for as long as he could, knowing that eventually, he would disappear from that realm. Our conversation then shifted to hearts—the anatomical heart, which we both prefer over the cute, candy-like representations of love. I told him, “The flesh that is us is always more ethereal.” He responded, “That’s a very memorable thought that is often unrecognized until it’s articulated so precisely, like a single-edged razor blade slicing through my hand.”
If I ever accumulate enough work, I would title my exhibit “The flesh that is us is always more ethereal.”
Love and light always.
