On Love, Travel, and the Desire for Solitude

I have been thinking recently that I was made for love. It is so clear. Theologically speaking, too, there are many accounts to support this. And I still believe it true, of course, but into love I sink like quicksand. Into another person, into their routine, their life, while forgetting what I need for my own.

For context, I have been living with my boyfriend in Bali for about a month now. The streets are small and overcrowded. The nature is beautiful, and I was able to learn some about the traditional Balinese painting style, but right now I feel defeated.

Luckily for me, my boyfriend is a positive influence in many ways. As I type this, he is sitting a few feet away from me writing his newsletter, which goes out every Sunday evening. He has been doing this for years already, and it is by his nudging that I am writing this now. But he is also a man. Hardworking, disciplined, orderly. Wonderful, but we are different.

Naturally, I flow like the tide. My strength comes in my adaptability, my openness, my slow observation of the world, and a propensity to delve deep in my emotions.

It is not so much my consistency, not a daily 5-hours of uninterrupted work.

Our schedule here in Bali has largely been formed by his habits, and I adapt. I find it difficult to be completely clear with what I need, and so it can easily slip away. But I crave a return. I have been wanting more to be around women, or to be alone in the comfort of my own company.

One could argue that if he really loves me and I love him then there should be no problem! You should be able to live together in a small room with no bathroom door seamlessly, you should be able to spend day and night looking longingly into each other’s eyes!

Wrong.

I need empty space. I need somewhere blank to fill with myself. The freedom to be messy and covered in paint. And for that, I long to be alone. To be sitting on the floor of my room, or taking over a corner of the painting studio back at school, moving freely, just for awhile, without being witnessed. I want to explore the wreck, and then, maybe, I can emerge from the depths with a little treasure.

While the feminine loves to be seen, it cannot be a constant state. A performance needs time and space to become full, become ready for view—any act of true creation is the same.

I am reminded of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, which I will reread sometime soon. The creation process is messy, and I cannot fully delve in while constantly with another person. Even if I love them dearly and am inspired endlessly by our life together.

Travel is wonderful, but for now, messy alone time is put on hold. Instead, it is traded for worldly adventure and experiential learning. Also wonderful, as the scenery twist and turn inside me, mixing with all the books and thinking and feeling to light up new painting ideas.

But for now, they must remain in storage. I have a sketchbook where I can do mini-creations, some writing, and hold on to what comes. I look forward to returning to myself, to somewhere I have roots and space to breath.

In the meantime, I will enjoy the view.

Until next time, thank you for turning into The Artist’s Journal. If this sparked anything in you, I’d love to hear it.

With love,

Anna