Anja
This is Anja (2023). Her name means he (god) has favored me, from the Hebrew name Hannah, meaning also grace; in sanskrit to obey, follow; in old greek resurrection. Anja is made with charcoal and acrylic paint on canvas, and measures 80 x 100 cm.
Anja is the painting I really don’t want to open up about, and the one I probably needed to paint the most. This year some things resurfaced for me, and I have been feeling angry about that, because I did not want to deal with this now. But one thing I’ve learnt is that you don’t necessarily have a choice in the matter. I’ve also learnt that when stuff comes up to be healed in some way or form, it is probably because you are able to confront some things in a way that you weren’t before.
Healing is just like time not linear, but a spiral. It deepens, or rises, elevates, transcends, depending on how you see it I guess. And maybe it’s not an “it”, but a “you”.
This painting is about being a girl, and a woman. It’s about not being protected, and shutting down because of it. It’s about the consequences of a culture that favors male satisfaction, male entitlement, male domination, i.e. the patriarchy. It’s about having to learn how to manage men’s lack of self control at a very young age to avoid being killed, and not being taught that they didn’t have a right to help themselves to us. It’s about being told to walk with confidence to avoid looking like an easy target, and then having shit happen anyway. It’s about not being taken seriously when we speak up about the damages our experiences have done to us. It’s about the stories other people tell themselves about what has happened to you, because why stir the pot. And let’s not forget that if you say anything, your reputation will be ruined and you will not be able to get a good boyfriend.
I grew up in a culture and a time and a society where the objectification of me by men wasn’t challenged at all. I was supported in pursuing my interests and passions, and I didn’t feel like there was anything that I couldn’t do because I was a girl. But there were things that could be done to me, with impunity, because I was a girl. And everyone kind of knew that you couldn’t do anything about it other than try to avoid it for as long as possible. It’s difficult to put into words what that feels like. And how this limits me, still.
I was taught to keep quiet, never to speak back, don’t resist, don’t make it worse, maybe you could even enjoy it if you would just relax, smile, be polite, and if it became clear that I did get hurt and failed to say so sooner, that was wrong too, and I really should have, because now they felt bad, and that was somehow on me.
Being a girl meant never winning an argument, and never being right until a guy verified it, and then being labeled a know-it-all. And men only liked being one, not dating someone who would potentially call them out on it.
I still fear being me fully, completely. Because I was taught that this is grounds for rejection, abandonment, isolation, poverty, violence. I’ve learned how to avoid, to fight if I have to, and to protect myself by being elusive. I’ve learned how to be strong on my own, and not let anyone come close. But I am also learning now that it doesn’t have to be this way.
That there is in fact, hope.
Gently, now.