Tag Archives: Inspired Art

My style is to just write and only correct spelling once I've completed it. Even the names of characters are made up as I go. I write until I feel I've released enough.

Content: After reading through it, I realized I'm all the characters, all of them, without exception. The story includes domestic violence, child abuse, the death of a child, blood from an accidental cut on the hand, physical violence towards a male teenage child. No sexual abuse is discussed in this quick write. Spaces are added to distinguish one speaker from another. I used a phrase taken from congressional hearings but left out all other sarcasm or humor.

"Christopher, your father will be here any minute, please set the table. Get his tea cups, please." Christopher rolls his eyes and says, "He''ll be here just a minute?"
"Not now, just finish setting the table, please."

He sighed heavily but very carefully pulled down four small, black Japanese cups with a red flower he couldn't identify. He sat them beside four square black plates and utensils he just figured out how to use. He's frustrated.... no, offended. His father will be home soon so his parents can begin their ritual of pretending to be happy. In the blink of an eye the tide will change from a perfect brew to boiling lava spilling from his mouth burning his mother to the core. She lets him and she won't stick up for her son. Her whole world is a man who comes home angrier each night and stays only to start another war. He leaves the carnage on the floor and goes out for the night.

Christopher's mother begins to bring the meal out to the table but upon seeing the settings she gasps and drops the platter. "Why would you do that? Why are you so cruel to me?"
Christopher feels the weight of what he's done and turns his head away from her. "Do it right and quickly!" she demands, but he's firm in his resolve.
"No. The table is set. You wanted a family dinner and I've set the table for us all."

By the end of her teenage son's sentence she has become a quivering ball of tears. "Why? Why would you do this? I just wanted a nice night for once. Help me clean this mess. Help me get this off the floor before he gets here." Christopher's eyes begin to well with tears, his breath is heavier and his heart has moved to his throat, but he leans next to his mother whose tears now mix with the ruined dish. He cleans the broken glass from the floor. Mother is still crying, heartbroken that she won't get it right, again. She can't seem to do anything right. She's a failure, a disappointment, again. As she hears the same old argument of worthlessness, she notices that Christopher's hand is bleeding. He continued to pick up the pieces one by one, leaving drops behind as a witness to his loyalty, to his love and exasperation for the woman he calls mother.

His mother grabbed his hand and looked at him, "You're bleeding. Honey, you're bleeding. Don't you see?" He dropped his head and shook it in disbelief that she for once saw that he too bleeds. "Christopher, what are you doing, go wash your hands, you're hurt." Christopher pulls back and continues to pick up tiny shards of glass. He pauses and says, "You never make special tea for me."
"What? What are you talking about?" She's confused. I mean my goodness, her husband is going to walk in the house and they'll both be on the floor cleaning up her hundredth failure of the day. Her mind is cluttered, she tries to prioritize. Clean this up, get something else, get a reason for the delay and stay calm.

Christopher places the last of the glass on top of the pile of broken pieces. His hand drips a steady stream and shocks his mother back to the person standing right in front of her. She says nothing this time. Still crying she looks at him bewildered then holds his hand, wiping the blood away with her dress, the one she put on for her husband who will come through that door any minute. She wipes away the blood, but can't stop his steady stream of tears. "What's going on with you? What's all this about? Tell me." ...continue reading

with all her imperfections fmaShe's a young one with sad eyes called "With all her imperfections."

Can you love her with all her imperfections? Can you forgive her moody ways, her tendency to frown instead of smile? Can you love her shyness, her uneven horizons?

She spits out poetry like she's on a stage show before college kids smoking herbal cigarettes and talking about diversity. She'll never fit in with them because she thinks they're shallow, but she can't bring herself to stop the verse.

Her eyes have been wide shut to ambition, calling it the true path to unhappiness. Her eyes have been wide shut to the clamor of panels on the news telling her how she should feel about the newest outrage, describing it as "woke". She can't stand it. She feels too much, says too much, writes too much and excels at imperfection, but she needs you to love her. With all her imperfections, can you still love her?

Her face is the canvas of her few years of life. There's still room on her cheeks for roses, still time for the love of life to kiss her lips pink. The brow line still rises and behind sad eyes there is living hope.

Can you still love her? With all her imperfections, can you still love her?

Faith
May 7, 2017 - 7:37pm ETS

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what I require.
gentle words, soft hands, moss under my feet,
rocks to turn in my palms and run over my fingers.
water to flow and fish to fly
the purr of the cat
and a pillow that doesn't reveal my prayers.


Fish in the air

Fish wish to fly.
They spread their wings in a watery sky.
They dance and dive like sparrows,
hold heat under their wings as an eagle, and
Circle like a crow.
To their dismay, grounded they remain like a laughing, senseless ostrich.

fma

April 21st, 2019 3:20 am EST

Today's therapy discussion focused on family matters: mother's thorough brainwashing and effective divisive tactics, scapegoating, emotional boundaries between myself and all birth family and a recap of nightmares from a few days back. After writing this entry I was reminded of the paintings "Resilience Tree," so I included them in the entry.

Resilience Tree

I was awake all night and until around 10:30 this morning. I had my session to go over the graphically violent and blood dream about cannibals and going to a psychiatric prison for the mentally insane because I was guilty of murdering my child self, the inner child of my sister and the inner child of my brother. I'll pick up more on that topic later.

We talked about the complete lack of protection from my mother: physical, emotional and spiritual responsibilities were ignored or out right withheld.

...continue reading

Redbubble is currently offering free standard shipping to United States for all orders over US$40.00. As of 9/24/17 this offer is still available.

Here are a few of the images in the children's gallery that you can take advantage of with the Redbubble free shipping promotion.

Thank you for considering a Sundrip art piece for your home.

Faith Magdalene Austin

Redbubble is currently offering free shipping to the United States for sales of $40 or more. If you see the word SOLD under the image it has to do with the original piece, not prints.

Here is a quick glimpse of some of the times you'll see my Redbubble. The link is also on the sidebar. I'll do another gallery tomorrow. Feel free to share links on social media. It is appreciated.

Faith

This was another painting that was very difficult to photograph. I did the best I could.

The Last Lullaby
The Last Lullaby

This painting called The Last Lullaby was started in 2015 when I was bed bound due to Lupus and Fibromyalgia. It was one of the worst years ever but I painted all through it and I painted in bed. That's' why the paintings ended up being called The Lullaby Collection. This is the last painting of that series as well as the largest. This one was created about 75% while in bed but was completed on my desk.

The Last Lullaby
The Last Lullaby

Although this art is personal to my experience, it doesn't need to be that way for you. You can enjoy the imagery of day and night creatures living peacefully. Enjoy the flight of a woman's hair as it blows in the night sky and fades into a rainbow sky.   ...continue reading

House at NightOne little girl goes to kiss Grandfather on the cheek to say goodbye for now, but he doesn't know how to respond to love. He is a provider, period. He is an orphan, too. He grew up in an orphanage from age 10 until he graduated and went into the navy.

He knows nothing but order, so a soft kiss from a child makes him squirm, but he doesn't reject the expression. The sisters double team him and kiss both cheeks. He grins.

The youngest of the two taught Grandfather how to kiss by placing her cheek against his scratchy, mustache hidden lips. She made an exaggerated kissing sound. Months of this training eventually produced Grandfather's kisses, and his ear to ear grins.

...continue reading

Looking Forward, digital art, Redbubble onlyThere is only one thing I desire today and that is self care. It's Friday, that means there are a lot of one's to be counted. These are not all in order.

One woman, one foot spa with fresh lavender and Epsom's salt. One square of 90% dark chocolate, one glass of red wine. One small pizza, one large cat. One chick flick, I'm thinking Jane Eyre.

As the night moves on I'll be rather relaxed so I'll finish details on Twelve. I'll finish details on The Last Lullaby. Slowly but surely I move through each project to its completion.  By the time I reach The Last Lullaby it'll be late, but sleep won't come that quickly. I hope it's easier than other times.

...continue reading

The Last Laugh

Growing up in a toxic household I found myself playing a role for which I never auditioned. We don't get to choose which role we'll play, we're cast and then put on stage. It's another realization of just how powerless we were as children and young adults.

I made her laugh. I looked away when that was called for. Most of all I never showed true emotion and never even knew what it was until well into my adult life. When I was a in her home I did whatever I could to survive the impossible.

A Jester or clown puts on a false face, parades around and makes a "fool" of himself to get a laugh. He distracts people from the real world around them and for just a tiny bit they forget. I hate clowns for that very reason and yet I've been compelled to paint them. ...continue reading