Unsatisfied

There are times when it is difficult to translate the cerebral to the visual.

My responses to the murder of seventeen-year-old Trayvon Martin made me want to paint, so overwhelming was my outrage, helplessness, and anger. I've written pages and pages in my journals--about the media coverage of this case, about the lack of innocence that implied for those born into a black body, about all the things I felt were done incorrectly by local law enforcement--and I needed to release all of this.

I had a drawing I began months ago whose original story (if there was one) is lost to me now. I began expanding upon it in hopes that I could create a specific visual code to express all that I felt. First, I felt I needed to include the most enduring symbol of this case, the hoodie Trayvon wore the rainy February night he was killed. I then planned to let go, to see where thought and feeling took this piece as I became a mere vessel for the story this painting needed to tell.

Many days have passed. I remain unsatisfied with the image I've created. I realize that it is incomplete. Still, there is more here, trapped between my head, my heart, and my hands.