This is an article I wrote about the Katrina experience for the magazine ART GULF COAST in October 2005. Life is about a lot of things, and one of those is loss. In recent weeks, thousands of people along the Gulf Coast have had more than our share of loss to deal with. So many of us lost our homes, our businesses, and our way of life. For some of us, it’s been even worse; we have lost friends and family members. It is hard to find anyone who was not profoundly affected by the massive storm of August 29. Before Katrina ravaged our coast, I used to drive down streets just to marvel at the beauty of my surroundings. I spent countless mornings on the beach, sitting in the sand with a cup of coffee as I watched the sun rise over the Gulf. My favorite evening activity was to bicycle down the beach road at sunset, luxuriating in the cool breeze coming off the sound. I could not paint enough local landscapes, or stand to stay away from my studio for long. In the aftermath of the storm which ripped our lives apart, I did none of those things. Instead, I swept the slab where my home used to stand. I picked among the rubble of splintered wood and rusted metal where my studio rested amidst a beautiful grove of bamboo. I looked for signs of life in what used to be my community, and I waited. I waited for the insurance adjusters to come and I waited for the county to allow me to go back home and I waited for some sign that things were really getting better. I waited for the moments of anger, sorrow and fear to pass. I waited for nights in which I could sleep, and for the cessation of troubled dreams which I didn’t understand. I waited for the clock of our lives to start ticking again. I know that I was not alone. We all experienced the agony of waiting for our lives to get better, and the frustration of not being able to control that process. In the months since the storm, I have not talked to anyone who can make sense of what happened. There are some situations in which reasoning is not adequate; intellectualization simply does not do the job. My only response has been visceral, and the expression of that has been through my work. Just days after the storm, I started sifting through the rubble of my life and began creating something new from the mounds of debris that cover my property. My canvases are now composed of twisted, rusty pieces of metal and battered pieces of plywood. I have found treasures in the form of clocks which stopped at the moment that destruction rained down upon Clermont Harbor. Broken dolls which washed up on my lot have been transformed into visual stories of shattered lives. Plaster angels have found new halos of dartboard wire, and fragments of paintings which I plucked from tree limbs like damaged fruit have been reborn in new forms. As each element of a piece has found its perfect place with another, I have been feeling something akin to hope. After weeks of shoveling stinking mud, wet insulation and crumbling sheetrock, I am now in my new “studio”, playing among my treasures. Instead of standing in endless lines to fill out yet more forms, I am making something out of nothing. The waiting has been replaced with creating. I feel like I have been blessed beyond belief. I have always known how important my work was to my happiness and wellbeing. I never felt that I had a choice as to whether or not I did my art; it is simply what I am about. The five weeks in which Katrina robbed me of that part of myself is a period of time in which I was not complete. It is only since I have begun to work again that I have been able to begin the healing process. In a very small and personal way, I have been able to make time start again. As I savor the relief that comes with moving forward, I am rediscovering the possibility of joy. Shortly after the hurricane, a friend told me that it was the responsibility of artists to begin creating as soon as possible. It was our job, she said, to help us all understand what had happened to our lives. I don’t know if my work can do that for anyone else. What I do know is that each of us, in our own unique fashion, has to find a way to believe again, to dare hope for our future. Lori Gordon October 2005
Posted on: Fri, 29 Aug 2014 12:27:25 +0000
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