“If it’s your decision to be open about yourself, be careful or else”---
Elliott Smith had the power to make people feel his pain, or at least, come face to face with their own, and he versed those emotions into a beautiful package. With most music, my ears tend to hear the riff or rhythm first, not the lyrics, so it’s almost like I’m held hostage in frozen contemplation as his voice gently and so melodically echoes his dark affect. I love Elliott as the person he was, and for the limited amount I do know beyond his songs, I view him as an inspiration and often play his music at the drafting table. His work was one of the most authentic, honest products of a modern artist- in my humble opinion. He took his scars and highlighted them, no shame, no apologies, just an unlikely collection of genius from the parts of himself that most people repress and deny.
I found his music in my early twenties, a time when I was still fervidly trying to pretend. I remember those years of not understanding myself or my past and stubbornly pushing to impress and please others. I know better now and look at that span of a counterfeit person in the rear mirror. Some are uncomfortable with a transition like that. I’m not the same person, this isn’t me, I need to find happiness again. I’ve heard this and I wish terribly I had Elliott’s talent to put his woes in a display box so others could understand. Yes, I have been hiding in a pit of a deeper sadness than I’d like to remain, but I have learned a lot about my own identity down here too. As I allowed myself to feel jaded, I also accepted the release of a facade that ultimately led me here. What used to consume and stress me out beyond logic, is now unapologetically me: I am late for everything; I procrastinate; I am infuriatingly unprepared. Years of trying to muzzle those traits led to a complete shutdown of also my better qualities. So, as others slap that ‘depressed’ label upon my forehead, I can’t necessarily argue but I can also point out that I have flexed the right to stomp out the bullshit that took so much from me. I understand it’s not kosher to talk about one’s mental insufficiencies, but if Elliott has taught me anything, it’s that, sometimes, pain can be beautiful.
What is called depression is treated as a malignancy, a spirit to be exorcised, an external problem manifested inside of us. Is it possible that what we view as depression can also be a foundational part one’s character? When I reflect on my life, I recall dark, a dark that I felt comfortable inside of. I memorized Beetlejuice at 4, eagerly read Poe at 10 and started painting decaying bodies at 16- it is likely to assume that I am not a naturally chipper soul. I also remember trying to hide that dark, to put a tarp over it and pretend that I was a normal, bubbly girl in order to claim a high appointed social seat and feel accepted. The dark has always been present in me, but years of submerging it seemed to rumble back up as depression took it’s hold. I'm not applauding my depression as a vehicle of self discovery, but I know it has brought back the dark that is my identity. It has shown in my writing, in my art, in my humor, inside and outside of all of me. The fascination with the dark is who I am, but it must be balanced, which is what I'm reaching my arms out for currently.
My depression. I’ve heard that, understandably so. My depression, like it’s a tight mechanical ankle bracelet, reminding me how trapped I am. I grasp that it is foreign and unrelatable to those who haven’t been there, so I try not to take offense. It’s been hard. When confronted about it, I often, in my head, scream out their flaws and try to hit those nerves that would hurt them in return if vocalized- up your dosage, talk to a professional- Yeah? Why don’t you mind your damn business and take your own advice?
Realizing though, that I am loved and that instead of defense, meditation toward appreciation for their caring is the best direction. With that, I hate the dependency on my little red pill, and the compliance to a flush of pharmaceuticals everyday. I understand that I need it. I’ve never been good at chemistry, but the simplicity that without my meds, a deeper state could turn harmful, is enough to keep me refilling. Thankfully I also self-medicate with the help of my green friend, which keeps evenings mellow and creatively fueled. That remedy is probably 90% of finding myself as I pull out of this pit. (That's a different subject entirely, but I plan to pursue it another time).
Coming back to the perfectly-put lyrics of ‘Memory Lane’ above, ‘be careful or else’ seems to feel hauntingly true. The first thing to go was trust of other human beings, no matter how close. That warning strikes inside me, the layered moments of exposing my flaws and losing my grip of the prison that was trying to please. As I begin to trust again, and become vulnerable to love, after what I would describe as an awakening, I feel the balance tilting back to my own truest me. It is hard for us to be honest about ourselves and our shortcomings, so per Elliot, I feel cautious airing out my emotions of depression here, but it's my decision nonetheless. If I cannot be honest about myself, I cannot deem myself an artist.
When I felt that pang to write about my current state of mind, Elliott was my unequivocal muse. His music is like my Jimminy Crickett speaking to me, guiding me; I related in my own pain and felt grateful for his truth and exposure of those things that are a dry-pill-swallow for most. This portrait I found of a probably strung-out Elliott spoke to me. His look of apathy, his body slumped under the weight of his torturous thoughts. Technique in portraits is a practiced skill, so exposing a novice attempt at such is frightening to a degree, but I know where my intentions lie. He may look nothing like the gloomy portrait I gleaned from, but with my own feelings and honing in on the reasons for his tribute, it feels intimately right. Taking this artist, this representation of honesty and stroking the lights and darks of his face, in unison with his poetry, feeling my own raw emotion as I navigated his expression.
I suppose from in the birthright of dark I feel warmly cloaked in, the silver lining is that when things truly make me happy, even to the most subtle degree, I can stop and recognize them- freckles on my son’s nose, the smell of a delicious meal, the sound of a rainstorm on the roof… they stand out of the bleakness and offer the reminder that our minds are not meant to fake happiness, nor to allow the dark to control us. So, in celebration of these inner feelings, I plead that others accept their flaws and even sadness while never apologizing for having them. Here's to the Vincent Vangoghs, the Wednesday Addams, the Margot Tennenbaums and of course, the Elliott Smith's of the world who hide behind nothing and just give no fucks.