My Dream Came True!

I stumbled on a quaint art shop (gallery) called Article, located in a beautifully designed shopping mall. After getting in touch with the owner Othman Al Othman, I wasn’t only encouraged to exhibit my paintings, but to also come and paint (live) every day, in order to attract commissions, buyers and art enthusiasts. I left my energy draining, emotionally scarring law job, to become a full-time artist. Although it’s only been a week since I’ve started as an art resident at Article, my experience has been amazing. I love showing art to people, I love all the inspiring and meaningful conversations these art works provoke. I love setting up my easel, brushes and paints at 8:00 am every morning in the lovely open space of the mall. I get so many compliments, feedback, oohs and aahs from passersby. I’m giving an art course for beginners in October. And today I was commissioned to do a portrait for a very elegant lady, who invited me to her luxurious home. Then, over fed me, and over paid me for my work!

I’m blown away by how lucky I’ve been, to have found the shop, to have found Othman, who is super supportive and caring. I’m so grateful to the universe for giving me everything I’ve always dreamed of, Everything.

I’m finally in the right place, after being so lost for so long. I’m finally doing what I love, what I was born to do. But to be shown so much appreciation, to actually be paid for it, well, it’s just wild! Wild and beautiful.

If you live in Kuwait, come and visit me at Article in The Promenade Mall, ground floor, next to Caribou Café.

The Longest Tunnel

People try to reach me, I try to reach people. But

my sadness is the longest tunnel, where the reception is always bad.

The light is not at the end of my tunnel, the light is not the way out.

The light is a mere flash, in the second-long intervals in-between tunnels.  

The flash is people’s voices telling me to:

Go out more,

Make new friends,

Exercise,

Take antidepressants,

See another therapist.

As I nod and say thank you. My mind, filled with abusive insensitive mouths, that understand my pain more than I do. 

I don’t tell my therapist that I feel worse when I leave her office. 

I tell my therapist that my body feels heavy, that my feet are made of lead, that my bones are as brittle as porcelain. I say my body is sore, and achy, and that I’m always tired.

She suggests I rest more.

I tell her that I wish to be touched, not in a sexual way. That I would like to be held.

She suggests - like all my therapists before her - A massage.

I want to explain that that’s not what I mean, that I tried getting a massage once, and it was a terrible experience, but I’m afraid I will sound like I’m dismissing her advice.

I’ve dismissed too many of her advice already, and soon she will grow impatient. 

The way my mother was impatient with me when I was child, and almost always sick.

The way my father was impatient with me when I was a child, and didn’t understand math.

I tell her I can’t trust the good days, because they are always followed by a very steep fall.

She suggests I be more optimistic.

I want to task her to please stop suggesting.

I saw her yawn once, while I was wrenching my heart to her, and I understood.

That my sadness is very boring - of course -  but also, that my sadness pays the rent, that my sadness puts people in college, and finances vacations. That my sadness is a tremendous industry, that my sadness is necessary.