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If I were a melody, I would be Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major

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Ever since the first time I watched the Swedish soft horror mini series “Skuggornas Hus” (The House of Shadows) when I was 17 years old and first encountered a beautiful string quartet version of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major in one of the first scenes in the series, I have always felt completely in love with the piece. It somehow embodies who I am. The multidimensional depth, the many layers of different textures and life, the persistence of the same melody but done in so many various ways, playing around with tempo and alignment; slow and gentle with just a few intruments and then fast and intense with the force of a whole orchestra. I like the slow build up and how it reaches the crescendo and then it flows into a place that feels like home to me. It feels like passion. How I imagine passion anyway. So full of life, love and devotion. 

And passion feels like home to me.

If you want to know what my soul sounds like – this is the answer.

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A scene from Skuggornas Hus, directed by Mikael Håfström (1996)

A promising grey day

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Vonda Shepard – Promising Grey Day

It’s a beautiful grey day. My favorite kind of days. It’s like the clouds outside absorb the mists of my mind and I feel all clear and clean in my thoughts. The greyness makes my true colors more vibrant somehow. It’s Saturday but it feels like a “today” – a day without a label or any associations to a specific mood. I am still allergic and I think I’m coming down with a cold, but I don’t care. I feel so alive. If people could see what’s happening on my inside, I’d probably start selling tickets. Idea after idea are born wearing full costumes of completion. I think I have ideas for many years to come. Ideas for art projects, writing projects – even art installations and some lectures. I also want to write a play.

During all these years when I’ve been in some kind of creative paralysis, I’ve collected artistic impressions from other artists, inspiration, understanding of my own artistic voice and talent and created a personal mythology based on my trauma recovery – and it’s been 7 years of digesting all that, compressing it, refining and polishing it up – and now it’s ready to come out of me, like beautiful, little gems.  But with the force of a waterfall. It’s hard to go slow. To take one step at a time. I am still a little fragile. Rusty. So I have to go slow, otherwise I’ll eventually crash and burn.

This grey day is a perfect day to enjoy the flow of this force inside me. Without doing anything. Just enjoying the rush of ideas and characters having fun inside me. Using color as their language. A perfect contrast to they grey skies outside.

“Thousand Yard Stare” by Mia Makila, 2013 [digital]

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“Thousand Yard Stare” by Mia Makila, 2013 [digital]

The thousand-yard stare is a phrase coined to describe the limp, blank, unfocused gaze of a battle-weary soldier, but the symptom it describes may also be found among victims of other types of trauma. A characteristic of shell shock, the despondent stare reflects dissociation from trauma. The thousand-yard stare is thus often seen in cases of incipient post-traumatic stress disorder.

Dust

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I am waking up with a sense of sensuality running wild inside my body. The white sheets in my bed suddenly feel like clouds and the light from the window makes the air come alive. I can see little sparks of dust flying around in here. How can dust be so beautiful? But I’m not surprised. Beauty is always hiding in the most unexpected places. In the cracks of reality. Where the real is almost too real, like a fantasy. Or where the real has never been seen before. Both can be found in the depths of the ocean. In the microcosmic worlds inside a piece of dust. In the surreal theories of philosophy. In the electric pathways of the brain. And inside other people’s hearts. The forgotten hearts. The broken ones. The withering hearts. Fading hearts. Burning hearts. Screaming. Dancing hearts. Dying ones. There is always beauty to a heart.

It’s a tragedy when a heart is closed. Sealed with barb wire. Poisoned with anger. And toxic hate. Full of black holes and dark matter. The beauty is still there, but trapped in the complicated defence systems or in the denial of the true nature of the human heart. The most beautiful heart is the open heart, hungry but veiled with fear – waiting for the right person to notice it, unveil it, expose it and then to be swallowed up inside it. Like it’s a passage to a whole new world. Red landscapes and skies of fire. Delicate blood roots touching you like curious tentacles. Tickling. Teasing. Rivers which takes you deeper within. Flowing like the sensations of a kiss. Wet. Warm. Somehow glowing. It takes you to the heart of the heart. The beating core. Where the rhythm of life is the true law of attraction. You are drawn in, without making any resistance. Whatsoever. Hypnotised. Every beat creates a spell. A rush. And you surrender. Completely. All the way. Inside. And it just keeps beating.

And beating.

Endings and new beginnings

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The last scene of Six Feet Under – with music by Sia: “Breathe Me”. A collection of endings.

It’s a new day. Spring is coloring my apartment in a pale blue light. I’m watching the last episode of Six Feet Under. I don’t like endings. Not even in TV series. But even so, endings have always resulted in something very positive in my life. Like the end is the first step into a new world, full of possibilities. I like new beginnings. Clean slates. Which of course goes hand in hand with endings.

After every crashed relationship, I’ve grown and flourished. After friendships gone sour, I’ve found a deeper understanding of how connections work. Letting go of a destructive entanglement with another person is liberating. Cutting off strings attached to a dark energy is healthy. There are so many ways for people to die and still be alive. It could be your own perception of them that dies when they reveal their true colors. They could lose themselves in various ways. To religion, to other people, to self doubt, to hopelessness and depression. They disappear from your heart and from your life.

When I think about the people in my life it’s like I’ve been a train station where people have come and gone in a flow of different energies. The only people who have always stayed with me throughout my whole life are my parents and Nanci, who’s been my best girlfriend for more than 20 years. I still talk to some other childhood friends but we’re not that close. The rest of them are gone in one way or another. Lovers. Friends. Colleagues.

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Me and Nanci.

I’m always moving forward – like the land shark I told you about in an earlier post. I’ve met some amazing people on my journey. And some dark and poisonous souls. I think they have all rubbed off on me – for better or worse. They’ve all helped me shape my inner mythology.

In the last few years I’ve met some of the most beautiful people. I’ve made new friends who feel like they are part of a family somehow. A family I’ve put together myself. New brothers. Sisters. Mentors. Muses. And then I fell in love with my best friend Johnny, who had been there for me throughout other crashed connections and painful mistakes during 3 of the most difficult years of my life. He was always there for me during all my fragile attempts to look for momentarily thrills elsewhere – which always destroyed me somehow. His unconditional love has been a safe haven for me. A place to heal. A place where I am never judged or punished. A place of freedom. Where I am allowed to be myself without feeling awkward and wrong in my most vulnerable moments of fear and freak outs.

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The concept of a lasting connection almost feels foreign to me. I feel vulnerable when I think about it. I know It’s a trust thing. I have to trust myself to surround myself with trustworthy people. I have to trust those people not to hurt me or betray me, something I’m way too used to. I have to trust life to be kind to me from now on. I am looking for lasting connections. I’m looking for things that moves with me instead of me growing out of them. I want a home that doesn’t crumble or falls apart. A home that’s isn’t an illusion of safety. Or an illusion of love. A home without a ghost.

All of those painful endings led me to this place where I am free to build whatever I want for myself. New connections. New boundaries. New rules. A new home. A new life. But I won’t forget the tears that brought me here. After all, water is the birthplace to every new life. Even in my paintings, I’m mixing the colors with water to bring new life to an empty canvas. I am deeply grateful for what I have in my life right now. And it was all born out of something painful that died and got buried in time – which created a space for a new life. To live.

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Just like in the very last scene of Six Feet Under where Claire drives off in her avocado green hearse to start a new life for herself someplace else, after a painful goodbye to her old life and the people in it. Endings are bittersweet. And new beginnings are awfully exciting and scary. And so fucking amazing.

Not wanted for who I am but for what I have to give

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I am suddenly reminded of who I used to be. Other people’s coldness makes me feel like my past is starting to breathe again. My inside turns into a closed box. Inside the box is a smaller version of myself – screaming but without any sound.

Realities clashing. Still no sound. Muted rage. And I’m standing here like a time traveler.

I am reminded of who I used to be in a time where nothing was solid. Not even time itself. Time was broken. There was a glitch in the timeline. And missing pages in a long story.

I am reminded of who I was in that story.

A girl who wanted so much to feel wanted. For all the things she kept inside the box. All the wild and free butterflies of her youth. And the bleeding house inside her chest.

She didn’t know it was a misunderstanding. She was never wanted for those things. Not even for her green eyes. Not for her talent. The nuances of her smile. Not for the depth of her soul. Or the welcoming heart between her legs.

Not even for what she had to give. But for what she was willing to let them steal from her.

Butterfly after butterfly on a plate. Delicate wings with the most delicious taste of innocence. A blood house torn apart by their hunger for more than she had to offer.

When the girl wanted something in return there was nothing but silence and rejections.

Empty faces. Humiliation. Ejaculations.

Frozen leftovers. Dirty plates. Zero butterflies.

I still remember the feeling of being her. The loneliness. The excruciating vulnerability.

Unwanted memories. Unwanted coldness. Toxic words. I don’t want it.

I don’t offer myself on a plate to other people anymore. I don’t have anything to give to people who don’t appriciate me. The memories are fading along with the sense of their frigid love.

I’m not that girl anymore. In a way, I never was. It was just a big misunderstanding.

Knipövning #1

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Random tankar av guld

i ett vattenglas

ospillt

men inte stilla

inte någonsin

jag läcker

täcker hela världen

som ett regn

från djupet

av min kärna

vibrerar i motljus

som Christina Lindberg

min kärna

brinner

hinner

bränna sönder hela världen

som ett guldregn

innan jag kommer

innan jag kommer

vibrerar jag i motljus

som någon spillt ut mig

över hela världen

i en gyllene

core-gasm

i fucking motljus

  • Mia Makila – 16

 

 

The artist

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The pollen season is here and I am so damn allergic. I feel fatigue all the time. It makes me less focused and self-disciplined. But it gives me time to plan my career a little. What do I want to achieve with it? What am I all about, as an artist? What is the core to my art and how can I use it to change the world a little bit?

I used to define myself as an artist by thinking that ‘I will show all those girls who bullied me in school that they were wrong, I’m not a loser nor a freak – I am amazing and I can be whatever I want to be!’. But that’s not who I am – I am not driven by revenge or any negative energies. I am beyond that now. I don’t need to prove myself to anyone. I want to get the negativity OUT of me – through my art; all the traumas, the pain, the rage and the humiliation. I don’t want it inside of me. It doesn’t fit. To be forced into being a victim never suited me. I hated it. I never asked for other people’s negative energy. So it doesn’t belong to me, that’s why I need to get it all out. Some people might look at my art and think that ‘the artist who made this must be a very angry or depressed person’. Yeah, I used to be, when I was still living inside the traumas. But as a person I am very vital and happy in my nature.

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“Funny Games”, 1997

Many people think I love horror movies, dark music and horror literature. But I think it’s dull. One dimensional. I need more than that. Although I do enjoy Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Interview with the Vampire, The Ring (American version) and old horror classics like The Changeling, The Haunting and The Innocents. But that’s about it. To me – Haneke is true horror. Especially the realistic elements of Benny’s Video and Funny Games (Austrian version). Reality is far more scary than any horror movie could ever be. Perhaps that’s why I am so drawn to the whole true crime documentary genre.

My art is often called “horror art” and I am described as a “horror artist”, which is fine by me but it’s not really true.

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“Bacon Colored Demon” by Mia Makila, 2008 – acrylic on canvas

 

My art is full of horror elements. Sharp teeth, hungry jaws, bloody lips, crazy eyes, rawness and aggression. But they are also playful. Colorful. Full of absurdities and humor. Full of life. And sexual curiosity.

Candy Colored Monster Ride
“Death to the American Dream” by Mia Makila, 2008

I am trying to use both the horror of my traumas and the playful core of who I am to create something that is both comfortable and uncomfortable to look at. If my art was just about the horror, people would feel too uncomfortable to take in all the heavy themes I’m dealing with in my art. And if I would just be funny and cute about it, it would create a distance and take away from the seriousness of what I am trying to say. It wouldn’t be as sincere and raw – which is my thing. With the perfect balance of horror and humor – the dark and the light, I can make people stay in front of my artworks and let them FEEL things instead of trivializing important and forgotten things about the human mind, soul, heart – or make them so uncomfortable that they would leave.

And sometimes, I get messages like this in my inbox: “Like you, I suffered from a long abusive marriage. Never thought a second it was possible for me to go through all the bad things. But your experience gives hope to all of us. Thank you Mia, you are an amazing Human Being and a gifted Artist.”

When you create a space for people where they can feel safe and be free to think and feel whatever they want – they will open their hearts and minds – and perhaps look at themselves through my artworks and discover new things or rediscover things they forgot about themselves. Or to know that their painful experiences as a human being doesn’t make them a freak but that it makes them beautiful. To know that their pain, loneliness, sadness, sexual nature and perversions, their shame, their rage and their traumas doesn’t make them less of a person. That they’re not alone.

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That’s what I want to accomplish with my art. That’s who I am as an artist. To make the world a more open and honest place. To create a space where people are allowed to FEEL instead of just judging, numbing, closing off, shutting down and ignoring who they really are. What a challenge.

What a fun challenge.

Overloaded

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Untitled photo project by Mia Makila – model: Domenique

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Untitled photo project by Mia Makila – model: Domenique

My hormones are not in balance and I’m having a hard time focusing on the painting. But it’s not only the hormones that is messing with my concentration. My mind feels like it’s about to explode from inspiration. It’s totally overloaded with ideas right now. I’m not complaining, it’s a wonderful experience to be able to create again – but it’s like every idea is restless and wants to jump out of me – all at the same time. I feel a little lightheaded. My mind is overcrowded with creative possibilities and I don’t have the mental stamina to keep up with them. I am painting, making digital art, creating things for the blog, writing, making sketches and now I am also re-editing old photo projects with Domenique. I have ideas for short stories, novels, children’s books, children’s books for adults, ideas for collages, drawings and sculptures, painting techniques that I want to experiment with – and I’m thinking a lot about how I can use the photo projects in a good way. I need to rethink the original idea, it’s just not gonna happen.

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My first photo shoot with Domenique when we were 14 years old, 1993

It all started in 1992 when I first met Domenique – and the year after we started making photo projects together. She wanted to be a model, I wanted to become an artist. She soon turned into my muse. We never stopped working together even though years could pass in between our meetings. In 2009 I decided to take our projects to a new level. It would be a collection of our works – my documentary photography of Domenique as a person and my own scripted ideas about identity, gender and sexuality told through hundreds of different characters that Domenique would embody in front of my camera. I spent thousands of dollars buying wigs, masks, costumes, props and accessories. I still have a whole box full of weird stuff from that time. It’s my favorite box.

We created more than 20 projects together in the summer of 2009. It was around the time when I started to feel blocked in my art. After that intense summer with Domenique – I totally crashed. I broke up with my boyfriend, slipped into a depression, stopped making art and moved to Stockholm – away from Domenique. She had her own problems to deal with, heavy problems. Life was tearing us apart and away from each other and our artistic connection. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to work with Domenique again. I hope so but it’s not very likely.

That’s why I need to rethink the concept of these projects. I have all these wonderful portraits of Domenique. If I’m not gonna tell the story about her through the characters, what other stories are hidden in there?

More questions to add to my already overloaded mind…

Six feet above

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Another creativity hangover. I’m exhausted and need some rest. I’m so into Six Feet Under right now. It’s one of my favorite TV series to revisit. The theme of Death goes perfectly in line with the recent contemplation about my own mortality. The timing of this obscure theme is not too odd – since the only view from the windows of my apartment is of the old cemetery across the street.

When I think about my existence  – my own life, I feel deeply moved. I am grateful for the love I have in my life. For the people who appreciate my inner worlds and want to be part of them. I have lost many things in my life, loss has been haunting me since I moved out from home as a teenager. But in each and every loss, I have found something really important in its void. Underneath the surface. I’m not saying I am happy it happened, but I wouldn’t be who I am today if it wasn’t for the things I found when something was taken from me. The more I’ve been mentally and emotionally stripped away by other people, the more naked and real I have become to myself. And that is priceless. The more they took from me, the more I found within myself. It’s not important what they took – it’s all about what I was able to achieve in spite of their greed and selfishness. Nobody can ever take THAT away from me.

It’s ironic – when I first met the abusive man I was only 18 and wrote this little poem to him: “Out of the sweetness of our innocence, we will rise and find our true selves.” – he stole my sense of innocence and because of that I have been forced to make a long and painful journey to the person I am today. Above and beyond all the crap he put me through. I am not buried underneath the traumas anymore. I have climbed at least six feet above it – where the view is absolutely spectacular.

So, I am grateful for how my life turned out. Even though it’s been stained with so much pain and grief. But I use the stains in my art – they are important to my artistic expression. The day when they’ll finally bury me six feet under, those stains will still hang on other people’s walls and be cherished and loved – so in a way it all worked out fine.