Links from the Show at a Glance:
Artist: Alisa Burke
Title of Art: untitled IG post
Artist’s Website: https://www.shopalisaburke.com/
Artist’s Blog: www.alisaburke.com
Instagram: @alisakburke
Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs
Art Ink Podcast Transcript:
[Intro:]
Hello, my friends! Welcome back to another episode of Art Ink, I’m so grateful that you’ve decided to share your ears with me today.
The story you’re about to hear was sparked by another great artist I discovered on Instagram. What I really love about her art is that she works in so many mediums, and what I really love about her is that she’s so open to sharing her process with her fans. If you scroll through this artist’s Insta page you’ll find art journaling, watercolor, black and white doodling, hand-painted pottery, mandalas, photography, and even enormous murals that cover an entire wall. I haven’t even mentioned the many hand-embellished items you might scroll past… seriously I’ve seen everything from shoes to refrigerators on this artist’s feed.
Alisa Burke is the kind of artist I want to be when I grow up, because she just doesn’t limit herself creatively… yet her work is still so unmistakable that you know whose work you’re seeing at first glance.
With so much gorgeous art to choose from I found myself having decision regret while working on this episode… it’s not that I didn’t still love the piece I picked, but there’s just infinite beauty and inspiration in a lot of her work and every time I see a new piece it’s my new favorite.
But the reason I was inspired to write today’s story didn’t just come from looking at Alisa’s art, the caption is what solidified the direction I’d be going in. But before I share the caption with you, it’ll just make more sense after I describe today’s featured art.
[Art Description:]
With a quick glance you’ll see a yellow and red flower, but upon further inspection you’ll see that this flower has been pulled apart and then put together again, in fact, this one flower is a mosaic, you could even call it a flower mandala, that’s made of at least 3 different flowers.
In it’s very center is a yellow mum (at least I think these are mums), and it looks like about half of its petals have been evenly removed from the outside. There is a faint orangey tint to the outer rim of this yellow centerpiece. Surrounding this yellow middle are 3 rings of plucked petals, all carefully placed so that they appear to be spreading outwards. The first ring around the center is made of red petals, the petals surrounding those are white at their inner points and transition to pale pink on the wider outer parts. The last, and largest ring is made up of yellow petals that transition to red, and this outermost ring is just a tad messier than the rest.
The remnants of the flowers used, and some loose petals are scattered to the left and bottom of the image. In the bottom left corner a half-opened pair of scissors lies among them.
And the caption Alisa used along with the photo? She wrote, “One of the most important things I’ve learned is that things can beautiful even when they fall apart. #beautyinbrokenness”
I call this piece of fiction, Beautifully Broken. Enjoy.
[Story:]
She looked into the mirror, ran her tongue over the bloated crack, tasted the coppery blood, felt the familiar sting as the dried salt from her tears mingled with salvia and slid over the wound. How many times had she licked at her wounds like this? She’d lost track. Countless times.
She ran her fingers under the eye she couldn’t open; the left eye. He was right handed, so this was normal. She winced, not at the pain so much as the thought: when did this become normal?
“How was your day?” He’d said when he walked in the front door an hour earlier. He didn’t have his uniform on, so obviously he wasn’t coming from work, but she knew better than to question it.
“Good.” She gave him a practiced smile, so practiced that she almost convinced herself of her happiness.
“How were your mentees today?” he asked.
“Oh, you know, the same as usual,” she said and he smiled slowly… too slowly.
Suddenly she was on the ground nursing her rapidly swelling eye and shielding the rest of her face. Through the cracks of her arms and fingers she could see that his fists were still clenched.
The first strike was almost always the most powerful punch. He wasn’t a big man, but he made up for it in strategy. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn’t in uniform, she remembered thinking, that he didn’t have a belt full of weapons to use on her.
“You wanna tell me where the fuck you were today?” he said, “because I know you weren’t at the center!”
The replay in her mind’s eye faded and she was in front of the mirror again, looking at the result of that moment. The pink skin around her eye was already reddening, and she knew exactly the spectrum of colors her eye would transition through before she could show her face with confidence again.
After most of these attacks she’d try to avoid the mirror as best as she could, but the peripheral shadow was like a magnet pulling her pupils, and the inevitable glance would always shock her-sending self-pitying sorrow flying up through her throat, manifesting in gut-wrenching sobs.
This time was different, though. This time she saw not sadness but strength in her face. She took in a deep breath, and as she exhaled, extended a steady hand in front of her, traced the broken line of her bottom lip in the reflection. Her mind’s eye healed her face: the swollen lip shrinking, the crack shriveling up into a squiggly scab until it disappeared, the bruising under her eye spreading then contracting as it morphed from red to purple to blue, at the peak of its darkness, and then fading into a pale green transitioning to yellow and finally a dirt smudge of brown before it completely disappeared. There was beauty in the power her body had to revitalize itself again and again and again.
This time was different, she assured herself. This time she was leaving.
Her gaze drifted from the reflected lip, down her finger, and to the sliver of glass in the side of her hand. She replayed the last blow of the night; so faded despite the fact it’d happened minutes ago… he’d backhanded her across the face as she’d been gasping to recover her breath.
“I asked you a question, cunt!” He screamed just before that, and the name gave her power. She’d recently learned what that word actually meant, all encompassing feminine power.
She pushed herself up to sitting, leaned back against the wall and said, calmly, and with her own version of a sinister smile, “you asked if I wanted to tell you, and no, actually, I don’t really feel like telling you.”
This he wasn’t expecting. Her unbridled answer seeped into one ear and steamed out the other, scrambling his brain in the process and narrowing his eyes.
Almost as fast as his first blow, his hand was clenched around her throat. He tightened his grip and slid her up the wall. “Where the fuck were you?” he demanded, pulling her towards him and lifting her from the floor so that she had to stretch to keep her tiptoes grounded.
She struggled for air, clawed at his wrist, and he let her down and loosened his grip just long enough for her to choke out, “None of your fucking business.”
With that he swung her around the entryway to the opposite wall and thrust her backwards. Her head crashed into a mirror and she heard multiple cracks travel past her ears. He pulled her forwards and slammed her back again, and again, and again… and again? Was it four times… or was it five… six? She couldn’t remember. What she did remember was the way her brain shook inside her head, her vision foggy and vignetted with black, and the unending shower of glass; with every blow it was like another windswept wave of sparkling rain ran down the walls in slow motion, so slow it was like soft static as it hit the floor.
At the memory, she ran her uninjured hand through her hair and a faint crystal rain chimed against the floor far below. Even the gentle movement of her hair deepened the throb in her skull. She was too afraid of what she’d find to feel her scalp, though.
Looking back down at her hand it was more of a shard than a sliver, and she pulled it out with her nails. Blood appeared in its place; dripped down her forearm where more of the broken mirror clung. She brushed most of it off and another rush of glass rain tinkled against porcelain. A few pieces remained, though, and with tweezers she picked them out. One by one the silver slivers pinged into the sink… like the drizzle after a downpour.
“I came to surprise you.” He’d said after he finally let go of her throat. “I was going to take you out to dinner. It’s our fucking anniversary you know.”
No, she hadn’t known; hadn’t remembered; hadn’t cared to remember. Though she couldn’t get a grip on the number of years, it may as well have been forever; fresh out of the foster system at 18 years old, marrying him seemed the brighter alternative to the street life she’d seen many of her peers succumb to.
Clutching her throat and gasping for air, she couldn’t respond right away, but eventually she rasped out, “why the fuck would I want to celebrate how many years I’ve lived in this hell?”
His eyes narrowed quicker this time, but the wrinkles in his forehead still registered a split second of shock. And that’s when he’d backhanded her, splitting her lip and knocking her down into the puddle of glass at their feet, where she’d instinctively broken her fall with her forearm.
He’d stormed away after that, and only once a few minutes of silence had passed did she finally raise herself out of the jagged pool of mirror pieces. She looked down at herself in the scattered, broken glass. Her eyes were pulled to the bright bloody gash on her lips. A tear ran past the corner of her mouth in one jagged piece, and jumped to another shard that caught it sliding over the edge of her chin. She’d felt as broken and shattered as she looked spread out across the floor.
The pink-tinged slivers coating the bottom of the sink replaced the broken glass from her memory. After she extracted the rest of the mirror from her arm, she looked up at herself, suddenly whole again.
With a double layer of tissues she carefully wiped up the glass. The action was automatic, cleaning up these messes had also become normal, and her mind rebelled against her body. She imagined throwing the handful up into the air like jagged confetti, and watching it scatter across the bathroom floor. She also imagined him drowsily stepping down into the trap she’d laid out with bare feet, and that look of surprise she was coming to relish lately.
Her open palm hesitated over the trashcan, but then, suddenly struck with an idea, she bundled her collection up inside the tissues and pushed it into her pocket.
She tiptoed up to the bedroom doorway’s edge. He was snoring like a lawnmower. This was also normal; he never lost sleep over one of their altercations, no matter how bad he hurt her. In fact, it wouldn’t be far-fetched to say he slept better. Apparently, it took a lot out of the poor, little guy to beat the shit out of his wife.
In the kitchen, she slowly opened the cabinet door beneath the sink, felt around behind the cleaning supplies, and pulled out a small backpack. From inside the front pocket she pulled out a burner phone she’d bought months ago and navigated to the texting icon.
“It’s time.” She typed and then sent it to the only contact listed. She’d hoped that she’d have a few more months to save up more money, but now that he’d found out she was no longer volunteering at the youth center he’d never stop until he knew what she was up to. Those luxuriously long days daydreaming at the library were over. But now it was time to make those daydreams come true.
She felt bad knowing that she’d be standing up all of her tutoring students, and she’d managed to snag quite a few regulars in the short time she’d been teaching English, but it was now or never, and the less people who knew where she was headed the better.
She checked inside the bag for what seemed like the millionth time: passport, birth certificate, social security card, and cash cushioned between a couple of changes of clothes. The documents were actually replacements she’d managed to acquire since planning her escape… she figured it’d buy her more time if he thought she’d have to come back for something essential.
She returned the phone to the pack’s front pocket where she’d stashed one other essential item, professional grade make up, the kind of foundation Hollywood uses to cover up tattoos. She was hoping she wouldn’t need it, but was glad she’d thought of the worst-case scenario.
The last thing she did before walking out the door was to sweep up the remaining pieces of glass in the hallway. She dumped the dustpan into a plastic bag, added the tissue bundle from her pocket, sealed the top, and stowed it in her backpack.
Twenty minutes later she was racing down the highway toward freedom.
“Slow down Penny,” she said, “if we get pulled over, I’ll never get out of here.”
Penny took her foot off the gas until the car coasted down to the speed limit. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m just so nervous.”
Then after a pause, “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, there are plenty of other places you can go inside the US and be safe. Safer,” she stressed, “most likely.”
“We’ve been through this,” she said as she laid a thick coat of foundation over the darkening skin around her eye, “I’ve done my research, it’s perfectly safe in Guatemala.”
“If you say so.”
“And I do.”
They were silent for the next couple of hours. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, but nor was it uncomfortable. Bittersweet was probably the best word for it. They were both happy she’d be free of her demon husband, but equally devastated about what her departure meant for their own friendship.
When they pulled up to the Philadelphia Greyhound station, Penny rummaged through her purse and pulled out an envelope. “Your bus doesn’t leave until 9, though, do you want me to wait with you until then?”
“No, you need to get back to NY so that if he seeks you out you’ll be there.”
“Right.”
“Did you-“
“I used the pre-paid Mastercard for both tickets, don’t worry.”
“Thanks, Penny.” She leaned over the center console and stretched her arms out for a hug.
Penny gripped her hard, “You take care of yourself, okay?” she whispered to cover up the sob trying to fight its way out. “And you call me when you get there, so I know you’re safe.”
“You need to get rid of that phone, we talked about this.”
“And I will, as soon as I know you made it there ok.” Her stiff look said she wouldn’t be wavering on this stipulation.
“Fine, I’ll call you… once.”
“That’s all I’m askin’.” And for the first time that night, Penny smiled.
It had taken her 6 months to plan her escape, but the 2 days it took her to reach her final destination were the longest 48 hours of her life. She doubted she’d be so unlucky as to come across another cop from her husband’s precinct, or anyone else who might know her, on a bus to the middle of nowhere in Kansas City, Missouri, but she kept her head low and her guard up nevertheless.
The one time she’d actually gotten the courage to call for help it’d been futile. One officer had walked right past her and shook her husband’s hand, and the other, while sympathetic, informed her in no uncertain terms that her husband was a powerful man and she’d best not anger him again. She had no idea how far his reach stretched, so she couldn’t be too careful.
By the time she’d gotten to the Kansas City International Airport, she could taste her freedom, but the nausea didn’t turn into butterflies until she was stuttering through broken Spanish at the information booth in Guatemala City.
Aside from the flight and bus tickets, a few pages of loose leaf were also tucked away in the envelope that Penny had given her. She herself had written some key phrases, addresses, and phone numbers down and had her friend hold onto them for safe keeping, that way if her husband had found her getaway bag, he’d still be in the dark about where she planned to run away to. Fortunately, it hadn’t come to that.
She bought a new burner phone at the airport and called Penny as soon as she landed.
“You were right, girl, he did come looking for you.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him I had no idea where you were, but that I hoped you met a new man and ran off into the sunset… the look on his face was priceless!”
“Penny,” she chastised, but a smirk crept over her features and seeped into her voice, “you shouldn’t have done that.” She imagined it was that stupidly surprised look she’d drawn out of him, not once but twice, the last night she’d seen him.
After another heartbreaking goodbye, she tossed the phone in the trash and headed into the mob of drivers at the airport’s entrance.
Six months later…
She closed her book and sighed. It was the most satisfied kind of sigh: like the exhale you’d hear from someone taking their first breath of fresh air after years of living underground. It was a sigh that said freedom, a sigh that sang gratitude, a sigh she was happily hearing on the daily these days.
She knew from the shape of the triangular patch of sunlight creeping across the orange tiled floor that it was around 3pm. Being so close to the equator meant that the sun rose at 6am and the sun set at 6pm, give or take a few minutes. If it weren’t for the dozen or so students on her schedule, she might’ve opted to live without clocks. To check herself, she glanced at the digital numbers on her nightstand, yup, it read 3:02. She could totally live without clocks.
She looked around her modest room. Furnished with only a bed, nightstand, desk, and chair, it was definitely not a place she imagined she’d come to love so much. All of the furniture was so simple and plain that it was obviously handmade. Actually, “simple and plain” were euphemisms for what her first impression of the decor had been when she’d arrived, “fugly” was the word that ran through her mind, and her opinion hadn’t really changed on that front.
The walls were white stucco, and on her first night there, the only thing that had decorated them was one monster-sized cockroach that kept her awake half the night in fear. She’d planned on finding her own place as soon as she could, but the family that ran the bed and breakfast style inn had grown on her and, more importantly, she felt safe there.
Her room was on the top floor of the three-story house, and that meant she had the rooftop patio pretty much to herself. Weddings at the nearby church meant frequent fireworks, and she always had a private front row seat.
Surprisingly enough it was cheaper to stay there then to rent her own place, and they fed her! But despite her extended stay, these living arrangements were still only temporary, which was why she hadn’t done much to decorate. Leaned up against the wall on the little desk, though, was her one decorative contribution: a 12-inch white ceramic plate turned mosaic. The letters, haphazardly stitched together in shattered glass, read “Beautifully Broken.”
Some of the slivers and shards were still tinged with pink, she noticed as she leaned back in her chair, and that was ok… she still had a lot of healing to do, but it comforted her to know how far she’d come.
[Conclusion:]
Thank you so much for tuning in and listening to today’s story. And a sincere shout out to Alisa for allowing us to share her work with you today. Don’t forget that you can see the art that sparked this story right in your podcast app, if your app of choice shows episode specific artwork. If you’re not seeing it, take a look at the full description of the show to see it there, and if all else fails you can always visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink6 to see it on my website.
One thing I forgot to mention about Alisa at the top of the show is that she has over 90 online art courses available on her website shopalisaburke.com oh, and Alisa is spelled A-l-i-s-a Burke with an E at the end. It’s all written out for you in the show notes. But you should definitely take a look at her awe-inspiring Instagram feed @alisakburke first to get an overall look at all the wonderful things she could teach you. Warning… you may not be able to stop scrolling. Just sayin’!
Anyway, that’s all for today. I’ll be back with a new art-inspired story in a couple of weeks. But until then, as my friend Melissa Dinwiddie likes to say, don’t beat yourself up, love yourself up.
Links from the Show at a Glance:
Links from the Show at a Glance:
