Meet Joan Borland, if you haven't already. She's a most unique and unusual talent who has learned to survive through art. When life gave her lemons she made a kaleidoscope!
In Joan's own words:
As far back as I can remember I was scared and tuned myself out of an angry noisy family life distracting myself by making things.In the trauma my 4 yr old self was going through I turned to objects instead of people.
I searched for found objects that 'spoke' to me.
Rarely did anyone speak to me without anger in my family.
I found a stone shaped like a nose I kept in my pocket I rubbed for comfort.
I found a big, round 60's button I talked into as if it were a telephone.
I felt so scared and alone.
I improvised to stay alive.
I did not know what 'improvised' meant at 4 yrs of age.
I only knew of an awful feeling that stopped me breathing normally would stop if I distracted myself enough.
I didn't know these awful feelings were panic attacks.
I did not know my mind was under attack from emotional neglect.
I did not know at 4 yrs of age I was keeping my emotional and spiritual life alive by seeking communion with found objects.
I was never told I was loved.
I did not know what love was.
My love showed itself by rescuing animals, birds in distress; I know I now was rescuing myself.
I did not know these actions were love.
At school an art teacher asked the class to paint self portraits.
I painted myself as Mr Spock.
I identified with Mr Spock as I had no self identity.
I was punished for this and didn't paint figuratively again.
I stopped painting anything 'til I was 30 yrs of age.
I lost a baby.
The pain was too deep to write about so I turned to painting although I had never painted since school.
I painted the spirit of my lost baby in the art I was beginning to create.
I'm sure me painting specifically spiritually brought a baby to me that did not die.
When my son was born I stopped painting.
My accidental spell of beckoning a child to me had worked and I didn't need to paint anymore.
I didn't paint again until I painted a painting for my son's 18th birthday.
The English teacher I had at school wasn't like the art tracher.
I was unruly and cheeky and he spoke to me instead of berating me in front of the whole class.
He asked the class to write either a piece of prose or poetry about fog.
I had been writing poetry as soon as I learned to write and thought everybody wrote poetry.
Poetry for me was easy so I wrote a poem for the writing exercise.
When the English teacher came back to hand the class their marks for their writing about fog he said he had never given a nine and a half out of ten to any pupils writing and would the pupil who he had given that high mark to stay behind as he wanted to talk to them about their writing.
I was a noisy member of a group of girls the English teacher called 'The Bridge Club', and I was totally embarrassed that it was me the teacher had given the highest mark in the class to.
I was 13 years of age and the poem I wrote about fog was called 'Smog Claustrophobia'.
I stayed behind and was anxious and perplexed.
I didn't know what I had hidden in the poem the English teacher would understand.
He asked me if I had copied the poem from somewhere.
I replied with an indignant 'No!'
He asked me to bring in other poems for him to look at.
I did this and he went about marking all the poems I had brought in for him with a nine and a half out of ten.
He told me I had a gift
He told me to keep writing.
I would have kept writing anyway as writing is a part of me I need to function every day as much as an ear or a tooth.
I have becoming my writing which I rarely draft and is as natural to me as breathing.
The same thing happened when I began to paint again.
I've never written or painted with any idea of how things will turn out.
With writing I just start off with a word or line that has come to me and go from there.
With painting I just make a mark and everything flows from there.
I can write songs, but I prefer to freestyle to let the words find me.
I have never attempted to get any of my work published.
I don't really know why this is.
When I was a working artist exhibitions came to me; I did not chase them.
I've had to think about this as Belinda is going to put my work forward for publication.
I had no family I could relate to.
My family didn't try to relate to me.
I was viewed as an outsider.
I didn't know I was developing into an artist.
My poetry, art, music, and songs are my family now.
I cannot be separated from any of them.
I did not draft this piece of writing either.
The alchemy that turns feeling into poetry, art, and song elevates you from your insanity.
The world sees me as mad, sad, bad; my art shows I am not of that world of judgement.
I am my art and my world is art; the rest is gravy.
