Painting Myself Free
When feeling comes before form. Before fear takes over.
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Some of my paintings were almost finished, but I was stuck. Couldn't move forward. So I let go and did something completely different. Rolled out a large paper, got out the colors and started painting without thinking about results. Just movement, breathing, curiosity.
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Looking at the image, I saw that my arms were locked. As if the body carried the same hesitation as the painting. But as the colors met, something began to shift.
I received guidance through the image itself. The colors became healing impulses, a dialogue between inner and outer. Between stillness and movement.
​This process dissolved the blockage, not just in the painting, but in myself.
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Painting like this becomes a conversation with life itself.
I didn't know where it would lead. Over time it became thirteen paintings. Open to your own reflection.
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We'll meet in the room.
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The nervous system's imprint
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Marita
1 origin
I rolled out a sheet of white paper
and sat down on the floor with a blue crayon.
I began to draw myself.
It felt clumsy.
Out of proportion.
As if it would turn out wrong.
I did it anyway.
I added orange and red.
They were the colors the body needed.
Then a space appeared in between,
and I allowed everything to rest.
Letting the body speak
before the mind begins to analyze.
The face reflects.
The pink cross
and the eyes that see.
I felt the face taking form
and began to regard myself as a mirror.
The lips formed a pink cross.
What is held inside.
The eyes mirrored
and reflected what was there.
A pink rose emerged.
I carry gratitude.
When the image begins to look back.
When silence speaks
louder than words.
Two beings emerged from the orange.
Two women in conversation.
First, one voice:
you must not say that.
Then another:
you must be silent.
The words dissolved.
What remained was stillness.
When inner voices meet in color.
When opposites melt
into stillness.
Hung on the wall.
Arms about to lift.
When she was given her place, everything changed.
The face began to take form.
The journey began.
To free her
from arms pulled down into the green.
The women were given more water.
More conversation.
The process toward freedom began there.
To give the image a new place
is to give the soul a new position.
From weight
to conversation.
Two women remain
as a mirror of the heart.
One who sees.
One who hears.
An inner dialogue
that does not end,
only shifts its expression.
A close view of the grounding in the earth.
A visual prayer for contact.
To be allowed to rest deeply
within the body’s memory.
The red field speaks
of primal force,
of boundary,
of safety.
Here, everything begins.
Rays of yellow.
A new lightness.
The weight in the arms was released.
I painted yellow
to let her shine.
The women’s process fell silent.
A sun wanted to emerge.
The throat asked for blue.
A blue heart formed there.
When the body asks for color
to remember its freedom.
Blue meets yellow.
The water rises.
The water level was raised.
Balance arrived when blue was given space.
The yellow had become too much.
Almost stressful.
Now there is joy.
A quieter balance.
When balance
is not an ending,
but a gateway
to the next expression.
Two figures reemerge in the blue.
Something wants to come forward again.
The painting is allowed to rest.
Night is invited in.
A message
is waiting.
I woke in the middle of the night.
A feeling whispered its way forward.
Balance.
Between what drives
and what binds.
Two figures were given names.
Dopamia.
Oxytina.
They moved slowly within me.
In the forest, I did not take the long path.
I walked the one the body asked for.
Shorter.
Slower.
That was enough.
The painting is allowed to rest.
But something has begun to move.
I remain
and look into their eyes.
My own.
One gaze is still.
The other is difficult to meet.
Now the image shifts its field.
The first painting has come to rest.
Like a breath fully exhaled.
It is time to leave it.
Not as a farewell,
but as a transition.
Dopamine and Oxytocin
step forward.
I listen.
A new painting begins to take form.
A white current at the center.
Blue water in motion.
Green filling the surface.
I follow the flow
without knowing where it leads.
When the image is hung
something new reveals itself.
A green shadow.
A deeper language.
The painting is allowed to rest.
When I entered the studio
and saw the blue green painting,
I took a deep breath.
Something changed.
The body relaxed.
It was no longer water.
It was a breath.
That a painting can shift like this.
From water
to breathing.
In the green,
in the presence of nature,
the breath deepened.
Color, form, and field
speak together.
Now I stay there
and allow the painting to rest.
I continued working with the blue figure.
The body began to breathe more deeply.
More calmly.
Perhaps it was the colors.
Perhaps the reminder of breathing.
Something was missing.
Movement.
Circulation.
From that need, something emerged.
A circle.
A gesture with the arms.
Another direction.
A heart appeared.
A rose.
The face received a calm gaze.
The dark green background was softened.
A shimmer emerged.
Softer now.
Still a shadow,
but with a new feeling.
Here, contemplation
is allowed to rest.
I continued with the breath.
In the middle of breathing,
a yellow flow moved through the body.
It came without warning.
Warm.
In motion.
As if the body knew:
this is the color now.
When I returned to the painting,
it was self evident.
The yellow was allowed to move into her.
It felt like grounding.
A boundary beginning to take form.
A sword revealed itself.
Not threatening.
Simply clear.
Despite its strength,
the feeling is calm.
Harmonious.
The yellow wants something.
I follow it.
It feels as if the sweet has passed.
The breath revealed a luminous figure with a sword.
She pointed toward violet.
Instead of continuing there,
I began again.
It was right.
I thought something soft and feminine
would take form in purple.
It did not.
A rebellious gorilla figure emerged.
Powerful.
Clear.
A portal opened at the heart.
As if she is saying:
now we go deeper.
She triggers something in me.
Not as a threat,
but as a direction.
She wants to show the way forward.
The orange did not arrive as I expected.
Not as force,
but as bearing.
Arms took form.
They closed around me.
I am being held.
When I paint,
I rest within the orange arms.
They hold.
I hang.
I let go.
Within being carried,
there is rest.
The face is allowed to soften.
A sadness appears.
It is allowed to be.
A deep, full breath.
As if saying:
you are held.
You can let go.
I stand in a warrior stance.
The strength is clear.
And yet,
I am being held.
The portal has opened.
It touches memories that lie deep.
I remain there for a while
and let the body feel.
The portal in the chest
is like a window.
The small figure within me
looks out again.
I continue working with the face.
It clearly reflects
where I am.
Then the pink arrives.
For me, pink is a bandage color.
Soothing.
Self evident.
A flower emerges
and settles over the figure.
As if the body itself
knew
what needed to be held.
A clarification is unfolding now.
A dissolving.
A letting go.
Old energies
are allowed to leave.
This is a release in motion.
A way of moving forward.
It is quiet to share this.
Close.
But not alone.
I have left the safe painting.
She is allowed to stand as she is.
For a long time, I have felt a pull
toward the dark.
Toward black.
And suddenly, this painting was born.
So much black.
So much water.
It arrived unexpectedly.
And right there, there is life.
What is particular is that she does not face the room.
She shows her back.
It draws me inward.
I sit still
and listen.
It is about art.
And about showing oneself
without hiding.
This painting became a statement.
Direct.
Without detour.
I do not think I will do more with it.
Now the next paper is waiting.
And what wants to take form there.
5 embodiment
I took the black paint
and filled the body with it.
I forgot to document.
The process took over.
There was a lot of water.
To breathe with.
To let move within the black.
The color lived its own life.
I followed.
I let large amounts run off.
Impulse after impulse.
To stand there
holding the large sheet
felt like an improvisation.
The painting and I
responded to one another.
When I look at it now,
I see myself.
Front.
Back.
Turns.
Gazes.
The contours of the body
emerge.
I can sit for a long time
and simply be
with this painting.
Different shades of pink
carry different feelings.
One of them awakened something today.
When I began to paint the contour,
it slid into skin tone.
As if the body itself wanted it.
I followed.
The skin tone was painted
with the large brush.
The one I almost never use.
It is heavy in the hand.
Steady.
Present.
With it,
the movement changes.
And I am there,
fully.
As I continued,
it felt as if she would sink
beneath the surface.
I used the brush
and my hands.
The color was allowed to move as it needed.
It became more bodily than usual.
My own movement
went directly into the painting.
The brush brought in the turquoise.
The hands helped her
to glide downward.
In the end, she sank.
Softly.
Exactly where she was meant to be.
Now she is allowed to rest
there.
Below the surface.
For a while.
Now I stand here.
Before the quiet painting.
She lies there.
Under the water.
For the first time,
I see myself without hair.
Naked.
Stripped bare.
Something opens in that image.
She looks away.
Slightly turned.
As if she already knows
something
I have not yet understood.
And slowly,
I begin to see
my own contours in her.
More and more.
As if she is showing me my form
before I myself
dare to step into it.
I met the feeling where it was.
Without a plan.
The first thing that came
was red.
RED.
RED.
A color I rarely wear,
but who now stepped in
with obvious power.
Then everything slipped away
in orange and yellow.
As if something inside me
began to glow.
An inner movement
that rests on something stable.
Fire
which is worn
of silence.
That was the feeling
I carried in my body
today.
The colors kept arriving.
Clear green tones.
A touch of blue.
Then everything stopped.
A blurred, murky purple
wanted to take its place.
I allowed it.
When I stepped back,
I saw a body
standing steady and clear.
But a face
and arms
that were diffuse.
Like figures.
A question arose:
Why is the body so clear
while the expression remains unclear?
Perhaps it is about space.
About daring to be fully seen.
A longing
to step forward.
To take up more space.
In art.
In life.
During the day, visions came
of larger rooms.
I danced.
Listened.
Followed impulses.
Out of the heaviness
an explosion of color grew.
As if something
had finally opened.
Many paintings.
Many layers.
Many feelings.
And perhaps this is where
the process lives right now.
In the meeting
between clarity and uncertainty.
Between fire and stillness.
Between what wants to emerge
and what is still waiting.
It is the Christmas market in Ystad.
I feel heavy in the soul.
It is not always easy
to walk new paths.
But the steps carry.
I step into the studio again.
I let everything be there.
What I carry.
What I miss.
And the gratitude
that still remains.
I continue with the woman
who now stands inside the mountain.
I love the yellow.
It is as if I illuminate myself
through her.
Now she also carries light in her hands.
I can carry what I feel.
I can manage it.
Now I stand here
with the Moon Woman.
She carries layers and depth.
An inner landscape.
A quiet movement.
The surface is diffuse.
The innermost
has not yet fully revealed itself.
And that is okay.
She is allowed to stand in the night now.
Perhaps it is the moon.
I always feel how something
is drawn to the surface then.
My feelings are mirrored in water.
In the sea
I feel most clear.
The sea that moves.
Withdraws.
Returns.
Just like me.
I sense her face.
The slow gaze
that wanders.
She is alive
in her stillness.
Exactly where
I myself am.
For a while, the sea was swaying.
Within me.
Around me.
Now it is almost still.
Breathe here.
In the stillness.
Until you can stand
again.
Be like water.
9 energy imprint
After a long while of dancing,
I let the music carry me.
The energy was allowed to move freely
through the body.
Then a feeling arrived:
it is time.
I taped together two large sheets of paper
and lay down.
As if the body needed
to stretch out completely.
I stayed there for a while
and listened
for the color that wanted to begin.
It was orange.
Again.
Warm.
Pulsing.
As if something wants to open
or soften
from within.
I worked thinly,
with water and orange,
just to dissolve
the white field.
Then the next impulse arrived.
Sky blue.
It wanted in.
I followed.
What made the painting particular
was how physically I entered it.
I painted with my hands.
Followed the swirls that emerged.
Felt them
as much as I saw them.
To work like this,
fully in the color,
fully in the movement,
brought me closer to
something essential.
A new layer
in the process.
I sense where she is.
Flying in the air
or resting in the water.
Is she moving down toward me,
or upward into the air.
I rest for a while.
Until the direction becomes clear.
A light is lit
in front of the flying woman.
I feel gratitude.
For making my way through the knots.
For something loosening.
It sits like a knot.
I took a long walk.
Spoke poems aloud.
Put them into text.
Breathed.
When I returned,
something released in the painting.
A hand against the surface.
Almost like a laying on of hands.
The movement awakened.
Then I dared to enter
with violet.
Music.
Layers.
A living process.
Now I sit here
looking at the woman
who has thrown herself out.
I notice how the unfinished
can be finished
in my eyes.
Before, I wanted
to gather the lines.
To create more form.
More structure.
Here, there is no such need.
This is an energy imprint
from yesterday.
If I add more layers,
what carries it disappears.
So she is allowed to stand here.
Unfinished.
Finished.
It was such a day.
To simply sit
with everything.
Now I can feel
how a blue painting
wants to emerge.
A quiet reflection
I can feel how the paintings
are beginning to line up.
They are calling.
Asking for attention.
Colors.
Combinations.
I think of the first painting.
It was proper.
Well behaved.
I did not know then
that this would open
a vulnerability.
To go fully into the colors.
Into the feelings.
Now I understand
that it is not about
being interpreted.
The paintings are more like mirrors.
Surfaces
where something can move
within the one who looks.
Perhaps they awaken a feeling.
Perhaps only
a sensation.
That is the whole point.
If one wishes.
A yellow one.
With shades
around it.
Symbols want to emerge.
The Flower of Life on a rolling pin.
It wants to move
across the entire painting.
I allow it.
It will be interesting
to see
what arises.
To paint in yellow
is energizing.
Always good.
11 red
It is Christmas Eve.
Last night, I was thinking about red.
A charged color.
One I rarely wear.
Rust red wool.
The poinsettia in its pot.
Red apples.
Some time ago,
I saw a park bench covered in blood.
Fresh.
The amount we carry within us.
The image stayed with me.
And so a desire grew
to approach red.
Not as symbol.
As color.
The red spoke for itself.
It was deep to enter.
I need to set it aside
and return to it later.
12 depth
Now I am drawn to the water.
I have laid a ground
in a murky lake.
Skin tone.
Green.
Purple.
It feels like a release.
Of invisibility.
Of the old.
Women have carried much.
The murkiness needs to be cleared.
The water helps.
The painting shifts
forward and back.
Just like the red one.
They pull.
They twist.
I remain seated
in the half uncomfortable
and allow it
to take its place.
I realized that the full moon is approaching.
It is reflected in the painting.
I have been completely within the process.
Not documenting.
Simply being there.
The painting is vulnerable.
Naked.
I thought she would wear a dress.
Now she stands there without one.
In shadow.
Holding onto the light.
Suffering is Grace
lives within her.
Not as suffering,
but as the capacity
to stand fully within it.
For many, she may feel dark.
For me, she is a breath.
Embracing the future.
She is strong.
A water being is present.
It urges her
to go deeper into her fear.
I listen closely
to the nuances of the water.
13 movement
I wanted to work with charcoal.
Then I found a large wooden rolling pin.
I took black paint.
and started rolling.
The movement.
The sound.
There was something in that.
I switched to a wooden meat mallet.
A flea market find.
It became my paintbrush.
Contemplation gathered.
Black color.
To hold back.
Being in the box
or outside.
There was a tension
between the square
and the sweeping.
Movements all around.
The floorboards left impressions.
Like a grid.
Like boundaries.
A painting about what is held back.
Now it's time to do nothing more.
Don't hang up.
It must have
its energy footprint.
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