Cath Sheard Art

Tag: identity

  • Art, identity, death and tears

    I had a random conversation on BlueSky this morning with a fellow New Zealand artist. One of the things that came up, in talking about the Felt website, is I’ve given myself this year off selling and exhibiting. My reasoning was I wanted to see, at the end of the year, what my art looks like if I create with no end goal other than creating.

    While that remains true, I’ve known all along there’s something else sitting behind the decision. Something other than just seeing what happens if I create with no end goal. To be honest, I’m not sure if I haven’t been able to put my finger on it, or if I haven’t wanted to. This morning, randomly, I got there – with tears.

    Some artists create with marketing in mind. They make popular art, get good money for it, and good for them – it’s not mine to judge. For others, like me, art is an extension of who we are. My landscape paintings aren’t about replicating the landscape. They’re about memory, feelings, fleeting moments. I take my inner self and put it on the canvas for the world to see.

    For the last 34 years, part of who I am has been Tony’s partner, then wife, and finally caregiver. He was always supportive of my art, whether he understood it or not. He encouraged me to paint, and came with me to Italy when I exhibited as part of the Legato exhibition.

    For the last few years, I’ve also been Alan’s partner, with Tony’s blessing. He’s supportive of my art, but in a different way – he doesn’t have decades of practice. He understands my art less, because he hasn’t been part of that journey. That’s okay, because it’s a different relationship. I’m don’t expect him to understand it in the way Tony did.

    With Tony’s death in November, my identity changed. I am no longer Tony’s wife and caregiver, and I’m not sure what I call myself now. Tony’s widow, I guess? That’s a whole different person to who I’ve been for three decades.

    If my art is a reflection of who I am, and who I am has changed, where does that leave my art? I guess that’s the question I’ve been avoiding, the one I’m starting to face, and the one that brings tears.

  • Ch ch ch changes…

    As you know, I had weight loss surgery a year ago. I weight less than half what I did. I can shop in ‘normal’ stores now. Does my head understand my real size yet? No. They say our heads are usually a year behind, so I still see myself as a lot bigger than I am.

    I have always had nice clothes, particularly for work. If someone asked me, I’d have said I wore what I liked. Turns out whilst I did like my clothes, they weren’t actually *me* – as in, they weren’t what I would choose if I had real choice! Clear as mud?

    I’m being careful not to shop too much, and to try things then make myself wait and go back if I still want something. Why? Because addiction transfer is a real risk after weight loss surgery and I don’t want a shopping addiction. Same reason I don’t touch alcohol.

    But I am trying on a lot of different things and, having lived in trousers for years, it turns out I love dresses, and florals. Who knew? Here are some photos – a combination of ‘trying it on in shops’ selfies and new clothes, some second hand (because nothing I kept from last summer fits, even though stuff was tight and I thought it’d be okay).

    I’ve included one photo of something I *thought* would fit, so you can see what I mean. The weird face I’m pulling with the floral t-shirt is because it’s a size 12 Charlo and my head was going “well, that can’t be right”…