Artist Statement

I am an artist because I have absolutely no choice in the matter. The only place you'd find me after a few months without art is in the insane asylum. It took me four years after I started writing to realize that I was a writer. Before I even knew it was my passion I spent hours a day working on short stories. I thought this was the way every child spent their day. I was unaware that this obsession with creating make-believe worlds was actually a sign of the artist within me. As I grew older I realized I was a writer and a few years after that I found myself craving more outlets.

I explore different forms of creation in order to learn about myself and the reality that surrounds me. I often use poetry to relieve myself of emotional disturbances. If an emotional secret or a psychological confusion is burdening my mind, writing poetry is what helps me dissect and diffuse the issue. There are many times when I don’t know what is weighing me down until I write it out in metaphors. Then when I re-read it, everything becomes so clear and I often know how to solve the problem. Poetry is my therapeutic artistic tool. I often explore acting when I am trying to release a chaos within me. I find that acting is a way for me to understand the way human beings interact while also having the freedom to let some of my insanity shine through. Being cooped up inside “Megan” all the time isn’t satisfying enough. Sometimes I need to be Misty Tumbleweed, Mrs. Mullin, or Bernette in order to feel completely free. Lastly I have visual art which serves a different purpose every time I try it. I usually draw or paint without much intention behind my work, but as the piece grows it starts to parallel with part of my soul or my current life situation. I find that many of my visual art pieces represent an expansion of consciousness and involve many vivid colors and swirling abstract patterns. I often use visual art to express the intangible aspects of my reality.

Nothing is more refreshing than finishing a work of art that I am really proud of. Whether it is through acting, writing, or visual art, as long as I finish an artistic journey I feel reborn. Art serves many dire purposes in my life and therefore I have no choice in being an artist.

Breathing is for the Living

This feeling, like a fever.

Grotesque and so afraid.

An insect crawling in me.

Sending venom through my veins.


I wonder who you think you are.

On a scale from 1 to Z.

I wonder who you think I am.

To do me such a deed.


This feeling, like a tyrant.

Abundant and full of rage.

My spit has turned to gasoline.

My kiss became a cage.


And who am I?

To hold your strings?

And make you dance the dance you dare not dance?

And who am I?

The other woman?



The other woman.


You will not answer with that tongue.

It is far too tainted by your love.

For me. And for the taste.

Of the precious one you hold between your lips.

That takes you to a land of fibs and trips.


This feeling, like a longing.

So lost in thoughts of May.

When brightness was a poem.

And I knew how to wait.


This is my only answer.
My only thought.
My only prayer.
Give up what makes you evil.

Choose love over despair.

Acting

I felt a lot more confident in the last acting workshop with Joy. I really began to feel comfortable in the character. I was understanding her emotions completely. I realized, after my monologue was over, that my lines were memorized. Every word just flew out of my mouth. That was why I felt more confident!

Watching the other monologues was awesome too. Each one had changed tremendously. I was captivated by the stories I had already heard. The tone of Kalli's voice during her Jasmine monologue grabbed my attention. As soon as she began the monologue I listened to every word she had to say. I was fascinated by the growth of Alex's monologue. Joy gave a great suggestion to try the monologue without a character voice and you took it. It works amazingly. You get so honest and the whole scenario becomes real. The whole time I was in awe of everybody's growth. Most people were breathing more, which is personally my favorite tip from Joy. And I love watching people on stage breath. It makes everything much more intense. Everyone was louder, clearer, and more sure of themselves. When I went up I was nervous that maybe I hadn't grown much since the last workshop. But then after the monologue was over, I felt it. I felt the growth in character developement and confidence. It was a great workshop! I can't wait for tomorrow!!!

Joy and Acting

Timing seems to be everything. Right as I'm exploring the actress side of me, I enter into this world of monologues. And then right as I arrive in the workshop, upset and frustrated, Joy is there to help me. She has a vibrant energy that is both relaxing and inspiring. I am able to talk to her like friend but also trust her like a mentor.

In this calm yet electric environment I am able perform and feel. My monologue keeps feeling more and more true each session. I find myself thinking about it in every day life and performing it in my head. And then when I perform it out-loud it feels stronger and more triumphant. I'm very excited to continue working on it.

Joan Miró

His Story:
Joan Miró was born in Barcelona in 1893. He studied art at Barcelona School of Fine Arts and The Academia Gali. His parents had a strong desire to see him become a distinguished business man, even though his passion and talent lived in the world of art. he actually took some business classes in 1907 and became and accountant for two years. He gave up the role of business man after a nervous breakdown of some sort. He then returned all his focus to art. (Although he did still wear dark business suits when presenting art.)

At first he played around in styles such as Fauvism and cubism, but he received negative feedback and very little interest form the public. He moved to Paris during the Spanish Civil War and began to develop a stronger sense of personal style in his works.

By 1930 he was famous internationally. He returned to Spain ten years later where he experimented with sculpting, making ceramics, and painting murals. Then in 1947 he went to the United States for the first time and has his art shown at the MoMA.

His Creations:
The art of Joan Miró is generally known for its playful and childlike impression. He uses vibrant strong colors mixed with simple shapes or forms in most of his works. He often related his visual art to poetry. He felt that colors in a painting were like words in a poem. His art represented the subconscious mind through semi-abstract formations. He took what he wanted from surrealism and blended it with his own personal ideas of abstract art and visual poetry.


"For me, a picture should be like sparks. It must dazzle like the beauty of a woman or a poem. It must have radiance..." - Joan Miró



My Opinion:
I personally love the works I've seen of his. I imagine they are more effective in person but even online they look great. He has a very distinct style but his pieces aren't so unified that they become boring. Every piece is unique and has its owns flow. One of my favorite things about his art is how he makes all the colors glide together and compliment each other no matter what the circumstances.

Another thing that draws me to his art is his use of fantasy and imagination. I love how many of his pieces are abstract but still resemble real images that come from memory.


"In a picture, it should be possible to discover new things every time you see it." -Joan Miró

"For me an object is something living. This cigarette or this box of matches contains a secret life much more intense than that of certain human beings. When I see a tree, I receive an impact as if it were somebody breathing, somebody speaking. A tree, too, is something human." -Joan Miró

The Widow of 1894

Parasitic mind,
hollowed out by heavy hands.
Suppression guiding the grace of her movements.

Relief at the death of Love.
Freedom is an infinite and passionate virus.

Victory in the eyes of a woman.
For she did not always love him.
But love herself, she did.

And she could see the space between the faces
that had always been there.
And the space between her finger and the page,
had grown.

Like the gap between what is and what was.
She holds him in her memory,
tucked between the folds,

and he is lost.

Beauty Lies Heavy

The morning rolls over, delirious with sleep and hunger. Beauty lies heavy on the faded green mattress. Her arms, slim and glowing white, are hanging down the side of her bed. Flickers of dreams roll in and out of her mind: coming and going like songs on the radio. Static thoughts awaken her.

She lifts her body up and catches a glance of herself on the wall. Her eyes are wide and cloudy, eyelids smeared over with last night's makeup. Her hair is knotted and hanging along the sides of her face. She smiles at herself. She laughs at herself. She thinks she's funny. She thinks she's sad.

The phone never stops ringing, and sometimes she answers it. Her voice is rich and dark and thick. She speaks of wild things. She speaks of danger. She tells secrets to dark men. She sings lullabies to no one. Or she silently sits as the telephone rings.

When night comes crashing down on the horizon, she steps out into the city streets. Her stride is elongated and elegant. Her eyes penetrating the surface. Her body is invincible. Her beauty is infinite. The moon reaches for her, pulling her into waves. Waves of breath and scent and silence. Waves of desire. She marches tall into rooms of maroon carpets and baby grand pianos. She swings her hips and throws her head back with laughter, in rooms full of music. Her lips explore the faces and the bodies of the people who adore her. She rides home sweetly in the back of limos, her body warm with alcohol.

The morning rolls over, delirious with sleep and hunger. Beauty lies heavy on the faded green mattress. Her arms, slim and glowing white, are hanging down the side of her bed. Flickers of dreams roll in and out of her mind: coming and going like songs on the radio. Coming and going like songs. On the radio. Coming and going. Coming and going. Dreams that last seconds. Dreams that last forever. Fading, fading, fading.

Static thoughts awaken her.

"Good morning," she whispers, "good morning."