The creative force of blood and art has been pressing on me all weekend. Learning of Axel’s crossing over, ceasing to inhabit a body powered by the blood he so loved to paint with. It was the end of an evening full of happenings that jerked me up and down between emotional highs and horrors, and they all retreated into their corners to be processed later.
I’d met Axel in the 90’s during my wayward days as a constantly struggling and unstable comic book slum goddess. I was briefly introduced at one of those things where I might get brought out to meet half-a-dozen people at a time, only to have the bulk of it erased later by drugs or booze or even my brain’s own manufactured psychosis. Quite a few of my friends marveled at his intricate handmade jewelry. A couple of the other women around my age confided to me on pain-of-death of their guarded, un-acted upon crushes on the guy. The blood painting? Some were skittish about it, some admiringly took it as “hard-core”, others only wanted to focus on the jewelry, and I “certainly didn’t need further ideas being put in my head.”
It’s only been more recently, through Art On A that I’d been crossing paths more with him. I’ve made a few blood paintings of my own, experiments really. I’ve posted them here. I remember talking to him about it once; “Don’t tell me you’re a cutter.”
“Obviously I am…” I trailed, my eyes flickering to the faint mesh of white and mauve scars on my right arm.
“You’ll knock yourself out trying to paint that way…” he was very nice about it, and neither judgemental or (SIGH) “concerned“ (you know what I mean). He actually offered me good advice.
Some days I curse my own awkwardness and distractability.