THE ART OF HOLDING TWO OPPOSITES: GRIEF AND UNFINISHED GRATITUDE
Hey there and hola!
When I began my new series on gratitude, I never expected it to be so difficult to create more than one painting on the subject. I started out thinking that gratitude would hold me together. My goal was clear: to focus on gratitude, rather than dwelling on the past or fearing the future. But what I’ve come to realize is that gratitude isn’t always easy to access, especially when so much of the present feels unsettled.
I’ve found that my sense of gratitude is fleeting, often not lasting long enough to make its way onto the canvas.
At first, I managed to finish a 12-inch square painting that left me feeling expansive, as though I had grown in some way. But that sense of accomplishment quickly faded once I scaled up. I switched to a larger canvas, hoping the bigger work surface would give my sense of gratitude more room to emerge. But after a while, something didn’t feel right. The painting been sitting unfinished on an easel for weeks now, and no matter how many times I look at it, I know it’s far from complete. The work, like my life, is in transition.
This unfinished painting is more than just a creative block; it symbolizes something larger: the impending international move. The logistics alone are overwhelming, where sorting through belongings, deciding what to keep and what to let go takes up more time than I want to spend on it. But it’s not just about the move. I’m also grappling with political, economic, and social upheaval in two different countries, all while managing the grief of leaving behind a life, memories, and the comfort of my familiar creative rhythm.
Amid all this, making art feels like a luxury, but it’s also what I crave most—well, that and gingerbread latte cookies.
Yet, the act of creating has become tangled with emotions I’m not sure how to handle. As I try to carve out space for my art, I’m confronted by physical things, like notebooks filled with my husband’s handwritten notes, that carry memories I’m not ready to revisit. Letting go of these items feels like letting go of parts of myself. The constant push and pull between holding on to the past and needing to move forward is exhausting. The more decisions I make about what to keep and what to release, the more drained I feel. These mementos are part of who I am, but they also feel like remnants of a life I’m leaving behind.
Art-making has always been about confronting discomfort, and right now, that discomfort feels particularly sharp. Art is about facing pain before finding the freedom to start over without judgment. It’s about taking one step, then another, toward an unknown outcome, and having the courage to begin again when things unfold in ways that don’t meet our needs. In that sense, making art is a lot like life: full of uncertainty, full of grief, and in constant need of reinvention. In that sense, making art is a lot like life: full of uncertainty, full of grief, and in constant need of reinvention.
But right now, I find myself resistant to that discomfort. The pull to hold on to things, both physical and emotional, has left me caught between two opposing forces. On one hand, I want comfort and stability. On the other, I know that without change, there’s no room for growth, no room for the gratitude I’m trying to express through my art. This tension has become the very thing blocking my ability to create. I long for peace, but I also know that the only way through this creative paralysis is to face the pain of transition.
Maybe, in a way, I’m grieving a different kind of loss, the loss of a place, a life, and a version of myself. And yet, even in this grief, gratitude still beckons, quietly, just out of reach. It’s there, waiting for me to find the emotional space to focus on it. The truth is, right now, expressing gratitude through art feels overwhelming. My energy is already stretched thin, and the weight of these changes is more than I know how to carry.
The strong emotional pull between creativity and the weight of the past is framed by personal objects and memories. My internal conflict of wanting to create art that is forward seeking is constantly countered by my attachment to what I’m leaving behind.
As I continue to navigate this tug-of-war between the past and the future, I’ve come to realize that the resolution doesn’t lie in choosing one over the other. Instead, it’s about integrating the two, recognizing that my art can be a bridge between what I’ve cherished and what lies ahead. The memories and mementos I’m so attached to are not barriers to creativity; they are the roots from which my art grows. Rather than trying to leave them behind, they should inform my work, grounding me in a deep sense of gratitude for what they’ve given me.
At the same time, I’m discovering that creativity doesn’t require me to be trapped in the past. The past can continue to inform my creativity without hindering it. The internal tension I’m experiencing will not be resolved in a binary way, nor is it a matter of choosing between the past or the future. By embracing the discomfort of change, my art becomes both a reflection of my past and a space for my future. Through the ongoing process of creation—experimenting with new forms and ideas—I will find a way to make peace with the transition. Art, like life, is not about finding an immediate solution. It also is not about choosing between opposing forces, but about moving through them, approaching balance in the flux.
In this way, my artwork will eventually become a living dialogue between the past and the future, a space where memory and possibility coexist. And, gradually, as I allow both to exist within me, I will be able to move forward, more whole, more connected to my own story, and more open to what’s yet to come.
Still, I remind myself that facing discomfort, confronting pain, is what ultimately sets us free. Just like in art, life demands we move forward even when the way isn’t clear. I may not be ready to fully embrace this challenge yet, but I trust that, with time, moving through it will bring its own form of gratitude.