Links from the Show at a Glance:

 

Artist: Mia Dovolani

Title of Art: Stairway to Heaven

Artist’s Website: miadovolani.com

Instagram: @miadovolani

 

Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs

 

 

Art Ink Podcast Transcript:

 

[Intro:]

 

Hello you magnificent human you. Yes, I’m talkin’ tuh you! I’ve been sitting on this story and this art for quite awhile… as a bartender in my previous life I was trained to avoid certain topics… oh who am I kidding? I’m a trained people pleaser so I’m always afraid of what people will think of me.

 

I feel like I’ve been living my whole life in a shadow. For most of my life the shadows have been plentiful and long, like those cast by an early morning sun; easy to hide in. Now, though, my mid-life crisis is that it’s noon and there isn’t enough shadow left to stand in let alone live in… if my life goes according to metaphor the shadows will lengthen once again, eventually, but right now the urge I have to share new kinds of stories with you is strong and it seems impossible not to at least inch a toe into the sunshine… and so that’s what I’m doing here.

 

But first, let’s talk about the art that pushed me out of my writing comfort zone and into, yup—I’m saying it, writing heaven. My dear friend Mia Dovolani is our featured artist for today, and she’s my millennial role model. She’s not just an artist through her photography, her life is art, photography is just the medium she uses to capture it.

 

I had the pleasure of working with Mia for a couple of years in my photographer days, and there was an energy she brought to the studio that charged me. I don’t know if it was just the bubbliness of youth, but Mia seemed to savor life experiences in a way that allowed me to vicariously bubble over like a shook champagne bottle right along with her.

 

Whether she was talking about food or family or travel or dogs, this girl could even get me more amped up than I’ve ever been about weddings – only Albanian ones though (and anyone who knows me knows just how miraculous this actually is). Mia drinks in life like a fine cup of espresso, and a sip of life seems to charge her every photograph with authenticity.

 

Whether I’m looking at a cobblestone street in Macedonia, or one of Mia’s serenely seductive self-portraits, I love how she sees the world and I love how she sees herself.

 

As I write this, I honestly can’t say what’s on Mia’s Instagram feed these days, as I’ve been absent from social media for awhile… but even a couple of years ago when I asked her if I could feature this photo, she shrugged and might have even grimaced a bit, saying “you really like my old work huh.” And, I don’t doubt her work has further evolved… so make sure you check Mia’s Instagram @miadovolani to see what her camera’s been clicking around lately.

 

For now though, let’s dig into Mia’s photo, Stairway to Heaven:

 

 

[Art Description:]

 

Captured in the Albanian Mountains, awash in golden hour light, this magickal photograph was made where the heavens meet the earth.

 

The foreground is filled with hourglass-shaped cobblestones, painted with long curling shadows that span the bottom third of the frame. An ornately designed wrought iron railing with an infinite pattern of circles containing eye-shaped ovals stretches alongside the cobblestones and a sheer drop off on the left side of the frame.

 

Five black lampposts are staggered along the fence line, leading to a black archway that’s decorated with curling heart shapes across the top. Through the archway is an implied, but invisible, stairway on the other side that seems to head back down to earth. Beyond the cobblestones and the railing a fog-like layer of clouds span the horizon, and above them nothing but beautiful blue sky stretches upwards.

 

It captured my heart and sent me spiraling back into the start of my spiritual journey and all of a sudden I was, as my off-the-boat-Italian grandfather used to say: in the toilet.

 

This is a true story, I’m calling it: Prayers in the Toilet

 

 

[Story:]

 

The first time I can really remember praying with all of my might, I was a pre-teen kid, sitting constipated on the toilet. I shit you not, pun totally intended, ‘cause that’s a fucking good one!

 

This is one of the only memories I have of really trying to believe in god. I made a deal with him: If I could just get this turd out without splitting my skinny little body in two, I would pray every day.

 

Since I’m here telling you this story, obviously I lived to shit another day. But pray every day, I do not. I mean, I stuck with it for a few days, ever grateful to have made it out of the bathroom alive, but so many things about the religion I was raised in just didn’t resonate with me, and it was hard to pretend.

 

Plus, the baby-forearm-sized poops were a semi-regular occurrence, and I was afraid to tell anyone because of a traumatizing experience I had with my grandmother (she once saved one of my massive turds to show my mother) and so I turned to god to save my hole. OMG, it’s like the Universe is just begging me to be punny today.

 

But the truth was, the only time I ever did any more than pray, was when I was around my Gramma Dottie. And that’s because she always cried to me about all the people she wouldn’t see after armageddon, because sinners wouldn’t be allowed on the paradise Earth he’d reserved for only his most devout followers, and she feared I wouldn’t make it.

 

Most kids looked forward to their summer vacations, and I did too, except for those couple of weeks I was sent to Gramma’s house. I mean, I had friends that had “religious” families, but none of their religious practices seemed to intrude so fully on day to day life as it did at Gramma’s. It’d start right at breakfast, when I was tasked with reading the “daily text” aloud, while Gramma and Nana cooked breakfast. The thick pamphlet would open to the right page automatically, a brightly colored rubber band serving as a makeshift bookmark.

 

Then, before we ate any meal, we’d pray. It wasn’t so bad on the days that Gramma did the praying, but it was a drag when I had to perform the shoddily memorized words I only ever used at her house.

 

On a good day that was all there was to it. But those days were rare. Most of the time there was a meeting to prepare for, or a bible study Gramma wanted to drag me to, or worst of all, a day of door-to-door preaching. As a cute little girl all foofed up, I was a marketing tactic… a way to soften hard expressions and limit the number of doors that were slammed in our faces.

 

But even when we just had a 1-hour meeting ahead of us, it was a whole production that filled me with dread. There was homework; reading followed by questions to answer. Then my least favorite part, I had to get all dressed up in the most ridiculous clothes. It was like getting ready for school but worse, because I had to wear tights and a dress and fugly ass shoes.

 

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all bad at Gramma’s house… in fact I have fond memories of library visits, board game nights, and crunching on fresh green beans picked straight from Nana’s garden. But even all that goodness couldn’t balance out the bad for me. And Gramma was always pushing me for more. “Why don’t you read some bible stories?” she’d ask me when I picked up an R.L. Stein book that I actually wanted to read.

 

Guilt trips were her super power, and though they worked on me, they also pushed me away so I wouldn’t have to feel so guilty all of the time.

 

I was a teenager before I finally told her the truth. My one saving grace was that Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t get baptized until they agree to it. “When are you going to get baptized, Becky?” Gramma asked me as we watched dozens of people get dunked at one of the assemblies. “I don’t think I want to get baptized.” I told her.

 

I wish I could say that she backed off after that, but I’m sure it was more of my own distancing than by any choice of her own. Then, after she told me it’d been so long since she’d seen me that she’d forgotten what I looked like, I stopped calling her too.

 

This was around the time I’d begun exploring my own path through spirituality. I have my Mom to thank for that. As far as I knew, Dad was still a Jehovah’s Witness, and while I looked forward to seeing him on the weekends, I did not look forward to Sunday meetings, which he continued to attend, with me in tow, until I was about 12 or 13. I didn’t ask him why we stopped going at the time, too afraid my reminder might start the cycle back up again, but weekends got a lot more fun after that.

 

My Mom, on the other hand, was more like me. Though she didn’t break free from the Jehovah’s Witness life until after she’d been baptized, so that gave her an unsavory title. My Mom was Disfellowshipped… and if you ever want to get a Jehovah’s Witness off your doorstep in record time, just tell them that you’re Disfellowshipped and they’ll disappear quick as a flash mob disperses. Maybe they’ll even blacklist your address for awhile – there’s a modern-day prayer I can stand behind.

 

Anyway, my Mom and Dad separated when I was five… and that was when the pagan party began. Well at least at Mom’s house. Translation for all my non-Jehovah’s Witness listeners: that was the first year I was introduced to mainstream holidays. Because when you’re a J.W. you can’t spread your arms out with out hitting a “pagan” practice. Birthdays, Christmas, Easter… basically anything with candy, presents, and fun… totally off limits. Most kids don’t remember their first Halloween, but I do, and vividly. Mom dressed me up in a glow-in-the-dark skeleton costume, and she painted a creepy skull on my face with lots of bloody veins.

 

I never really got into Christmas, but that was probably because I had a bad experience before my parents split up. I can’t say for sure, but I think my Mom was on the way out already when she’d taken me to my Aunt and Uncle’s house, where I unwrapped my very first Christmas gift at 4 years old. It was definitely a dollar store gift, some brightly colored cardboard with holes punched out of it and dotted lines connecting those holes. It came with a ginormous kid-safe needle and yarn to pretend sew with. And I absolutely loved it; played with it all night until it was time to go home. But when I got home and showed my Dad my gift, he asked me where I’d gotten it, and the angry look on his face immediately turned me into a puddle of guilt as I blubbered out something about Christmas. Then Mom and Dad started screaming at each other, though I don’t remember what exactly was said. And honestly, although I suspect my parents fought a lot when they were together, that’s the only fight I actually remember.

 

But I’m getting off track… the point is that with my toe dipped into the forbidden fun stream mixed with all the unsatisfactory feelings of blatant manipulation I got from my given religion, I started to question reality more and more.

 

I became obsessed with the new age shelf at our bookstore. I read about ghosts, near death experiences, alien abductions and UFO sightings. I began to dabble in psychic development exercises, spellcasting and many different forms of divination. I don’t know what I thought I was searching for back then… but in retrospect I can see it: I was looking for power, for a way to take control of the chaos I felt inside.

 

Then I started adulting, and most of the magick left my life. And for a good decade I tried to be like other people. I went to school, worked shitty jobs to pay for said school, got a dream job whose dreaminess quickly faded, and realized that money and job titles could only get me about 2 rungs up the happiness ladder before I started itching for a better ladder to climb.

 

It wasn’t until I started meditating, sitting in the midst of so much unhappiness, that I finally started consciously creating my life.

 

Up until that point, during my magickal dry spell, I’d decided I was an atheist. Jokingly, I’d tell my friends that I was god. I reveled in my religious rebelliousness. I dared god, if he existed, to strike me down for such blasphemous thoughts, and I thought these thoughts often… but no lightning ever came.

 

Then one day I heard someone else say the same thing, except, they weren’t joking. They said that we are all the gods of our own universe; we are creators. It’s funny, I can’t remember who first tickled my ears with that concept, because it’s something I hear often now that I tune into that channel, but I vividly remember the resonance I felt when the words washed over me and I realized: I am a motherfucking god. And yes, so are you!

 

The stairway to heaven is inside of you. That’s it. It’s that simple.

 

But, since it took me 30+ years to learn this myself, I know first hand how easy it is to overcomplicate and therefore overlook that simplicity.

 

You might have noticed that I went silent on this podcast for quite awhile. I’m not gonna lie. I’ve spent many of the past several months in the fetal position sobbing intermittently. I mean, I’ve always felt like a rainbow colored sheep in a wooly sea of beige, but when the worldwide hysteria, division and fear started seeping into me… it was like I grew 3 extra heads and started levitating too. At least that’s how I felt to stand in my truth outside of the flock… so I just stopped standing, and I crawled for a bit; it felt safer that way. Sad but safe…

 

I could blame 2020, but the hard truth I’m coming to realize is that, as a god, I need to accept responsibility for my own creations or, in this case, the lack thereof. What can I say? I’m a god in training. I’m still learning. But what I’m learning has been so fascinating and life-changing, that I’ve had a suddenly strong desire to share it all with you.

 

Because, if the whole calling-yourself-a-god thing feels icky, let me put it another way: life is art, and we are ALL artists. I don’t know about you, but I want my life to be my greatest masterpiece.

 

 

[Conclusion:]

 

That’s why I’m planning to stray a bit more out of my comfort zone from here on out. You can expect many of the upcoming podcast episodes to feature some of the most profound experiences and discoveries I’ve had on my spiritual journey. These will be personal narrative style stories, the only difference being that the art and writing ‘inspiration roles’ will be reversed from a typical Art Ink story. Meaning the writing comes first and isn’t necessarily a reaction or response to the art. Let’s call it an art pairing! And, obviously, the subject matter will be a bit more focused on all things magickal and metaphysical.

 

And, full disclosure, this is also my attempt to balance the energy I’m sending your way. Another reason I haven’t released a show in awhile was because I was working on a few dark stories that felt too hard to share at the time. Those stories will be released soon, and let me tell you, while I’m not lying when I say that I believe the stairway to heaven is inside of each of us, you bet your ass I know that the stairway to hell is in there too. So I think it’s important that I share my shadows as well, for context, however scary that may seem.

 

I’m still accepting submissions for art and stories, on any topic, but until I’m able to commit to an outreach plan, I’m going to be focusing mostly on content creation and marketing, which means you’ll be seeing a bit more art from my own stash until I’m mentally able to start scouting on social media again. Or… and to be honest, this is what I’m hoping, until the Universe taps you on the shoulder and you feel the same urgency I do to share your work with us here.

 

I’m not sure how that’ll work just yet because you are experiencing the inspiration as it comes out of me right now… but this makes it even easier to get your art featured on Art Ink – you don’t even have to write a story now!

 

Thanks so much to Mia for sharing her gorgeous Stairway to Heaven photograph with us today. I really encourage you to check out her work on Instagram @MiaDovolani to see what she’s working on now. That’s @MiaDovolani on Instagram.

 

Well, that’s all I have for you today! Thank you all, so much for listening!

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