UMBRAL - Works
umbral /um•bral [adjective/masculine noun]
1 - (english) Of or pertaining to an umbra.
2 – (brazilian portuguese) Threshold, door, entrance, the beginning of something
4 -– (brazilian portuguese) Figuratively, a boundary or border between two states or situations.
3 – (brazilian portuguese) [Religion] According to some currents of Spiritism, a spiritual region often defined as a transitory state or place through which people pass who did not know how to take advantage of the opportunity for evolution in their life on Earth.
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How to use words to describe that which is afraid to be communicated? That which I tear from inside through the force of hatred, in a panic, in utter terror of being seen or heard? Art is my main form of sincere communication. The language I use to talk about the things I cannot express in speech. How then to explain, in a manner not incoherent, that which fights against even this, most subtle form of expression? To do so directly is an impossibility. The topic flees from words like a cockroach from light. It’s not prepared to be looked at so directly. Or I’m not. Indirectly then, I will attempt to point towards... To bring, if not sunlight, yet, then moonlight - subtle, soft, and stealthy - to the topic of this exhibition.
I once read a story on the internet (written by the user u/breakfastpotato on reddit.com; here) that talked about "not rocking the boat." It's a common expression in English, meaning something like "don't cause unnecessary problems," or "don't wake the sleeping beast." I think it exemplifies beautifully the crushing unfairness of this phrase. To paraphrase;
“[I’m not] the one rocking the boat. It's the crazy person jumping up and down and running side to side. […]
At some point […], they gave the boat a little nudge. And look how everyone jumped to steady the boat! So they do it again, and again. Soon their family is in the habit of swaying to counteract the crazy. Boat-rocker moves left, they move right, balance is restored (temporarily). […]The boat-rocker can't survive in a boat by themselves. They’ve never had to face the consequences of their rocking. They'll tip over. So they find an enabler: someone so proud of their boat-steadying skills that they secretly (or not so secretly) live for the rocking. […]The next generation of boat-steadiers is born. A born boat-steadier doesn't know what solid ground feels like. They’re so used to the constant swaying that anything else feels wrong and they'll fall over. There's a good chance the boat-rocker never taught them to swim either. They'll jump at the slightest twitch like their life depends on it, because it did. When you're in their boat, you're expected to help steady it. When you decline, the other boat-steadiers get resentful. Look at you, just sitting there while they do all the work! They don't see that you aren't the one making the boat rock. They might not even see the life rafts available for them to get out. All they know is that the boat can't be allowed to tip, and you're not helping. […]Can't you […] see how much better it is for everyone (else) if you just get back on the boat and keep it steady? It would make their lives so much easier.
You know what would be easier? If they all just chucked the rocker overboard.”
(Edited for brevity and gender-neutral language; original here)
But what if I love the rocking person? What if I understand why they originally started rocking? What if, by throwing them overboard and allowing the boat to stabilize for everyone, I become a murderer? What if the steadiers, without anything to balance, are lost and directionless, unprepared to deal with solid ground? What if I love the steadiers too?
What if facing solid ground forces you to see, for the first time, the ineffable scope of the pain that all this rocking masked for years, decades, and lifetimes? What do I do with all this pain? Where do I keep it? Its dwelling place is the silent coffin buried in my chest. Simultaneous protection and unbearable weight; either I destroy myself, or I destroy those I love.
I know where I need to go to deal with this pain that was buried within me without my permission. I know that this pain will never be dissolved. I need, simply, to enter the coffin. Surrender. And inside it: the Umbral.
