Letter 1 :
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking. (Mary Shelley, Frankenstein. 1818 )
First of all, class. I attended lesson and was greeted by the teacher showing with diverse pictures of monsters, frankensteins and other horrors. (Though, when I saw that the most horrifying pictures was from the show “Walking Dead”, I realised I was truly desensitised and had spend too much time on the internet.) From Hannah Hocke to Kara Walker, the teacher encouraged us for the next exercise to explore our deepest fears.
Not a minute after, all the students are lying down, silhouetting their body on white paper.
The floor is covered by drawn life size human shapes, as if it was the theatre of morbid crime. The next step was to fill these empty body with what we feared the most. I forgot my drawing tools at home, but I manage to complete it within the time allowed with a graphite pen.
My monster is a composition of most of my fears or troubles at the time. From head to toe.
The hair for me is a symbol of strength and beauty, it ornate the face like a frame and it is the first things that interacts with the others. Here, it is made with fake crazy laughter (humour/armour) and reprimands.
There is only one eye, wide open in fear, the throat torn open exposing the vocals chords but no mouth. the tools for communication are presents on the inside, there is something to say, but it never reaches the outside. The sound is trapped inside the body. Without the possibility to express itself, the figure is powerless, seeing everything but unable to act.
Also, the throat has been sliced, as if the sound was redirected out in an unnatural way, a forced way out. Somehow, it’s about freedom of speech, you can say what you want as long as it fits everyone else opinions.
The fingers are cut, the hand is wounded and useless. I’m really afraid of hurting my hands and losing its capabilities.
There is a monster inside the ribcage: we’re ugly on the inside and we’re all monsters. There is something hidden away in us. The bones of the ribcage and else where refers to anorexia.
Old wound not healed and St-Michel are too personal to be able to talk about it
Veins are anxiety, they choke the body and the mind. It feels like they shrink from the inside and paralyse the muscle. As long as I remember, I’ve always been afraid of seeing my veins through my skin and everything related to blood transfusion.
The roots/tentacles on the legs are my fear of being trapped or motionless. When tangled in the ground, you are forced to become stagnant. I guess it could be also that I am afraid of my roots and where I come from.
In the end, was born our monster.
“IT’S ALIVE !”