For a brief, glorious period in the late nineties when I had disposable income, I would do an hour every week in an isolation tank. There's a whole 'nother story about becoming friends with the tank's owner, and then that falling apart, but it's really not interesting.
What's interesting, in retrospect, is what was happening in my sketchbooks. I have several challenges when it comes to drawing. One is that I have a hard time drawing things I can't see; I'm not one of those blessed folks who can draw straight out of their heads. Another is that for seven years, I made a living drawing the outlines of things. Oulines of things I'm looking at: no prob. Shading, texture, mass: eh.
Anyway, one night after I'd bopped out of the tank and showered off all the salt and debriefed with S, I went home and drew this. Out of my head. I don't know why. I wasn't actively thinking about boys or dogs or skeletons, but this is what was in me. It was really comfortable, too; it came easily.
A lot of bones out of that period. Skulls, skeletons. Maybe from hanging in the dark water, becoming increasingly aware of all the hissing, squeezing, gurgling of the human body? The muscle flutters? The internal mechanisms of sight struggling to put pattern to nothingness? I don't know.
I just remember that I made this drawing, looked at it, and thought I am sort of a weird girl.
