Happy Friday! Today, we're sharing a guest article by writer Ariadne Pautina. She tells us her story, what her imagination and inspiration comes from, and answers an important question – does art imitate life? And can we really separate the artist from the art?
Content Warnings: C-PTSD; Domestic abuse; Sexual abuse / assault; Suicidal ideation
Is there ever a barrier between the creator and the created?
Authors create characters. They create worlds. And to do so they will often create characters and situations which are opposed to their own views in order to reflect the world, or represent areas of conflict to drive the story. This creation, no matter how fantastic or cruel, is still formed from a place of bias.
I believe it’s inescapable – no matter how disciplined creatives are.
My own creative works offer a mix of people, of places, of cultures. I endeavour to present a sensitively researched representation of whomever I include within my work; and blend both aspects of what could be termed ‘good’ or ‘bad’, depending on your viewpoint.
However, unless I’ve lived it, I’ll never truly be able to encapsulate the experience.
I like to think my imagination does an effective job to convey the traits of characters I place in my stories; I also use sensitivity readers to check how I’ve done. Yet I can only create from my own understanding of a set of circumstances. No matter how objective I try to be, my own bias, my own interpretation, will impact how I write and what I create.
The characters I’ve created, and worlds I’ve formed, are a reflection of my beliefs, my life, my history. There are people in my creative works that I’d never want to be identified or associated with. Sure, there are traits I exaggerate to make a point, but my world view will subconsciously impact the presentation.
So, am I the only one who faces this bias when creating their work – in whatever form? From anecdotal observations I’d say I’m not alone.
Whether it’s pouring your heart and soul into music, into lyrics, into art, into words… the author is visible. Threaded through every beat, every letter, every choice. In commissioned work, our own creator bias can be seen in the selection of tone, of composition, even if the theme has been requested from someone else. A commission is only the frame which the creator then uses to forge their interpretation of how they envisage it, after all.
All to say that, ultimately, this creator (me) cannot be divided from her created work.
Cut me, and I’ll bleed words. Bleed ink. Spill the sorrow which maps my veins. The experiences which have shaped me. Who I am now is who I’ve been moulded to be, which means I view the world in a way bespoke to me. And, ultimately, those unconscious biases encroach into every word I write.
Even if I try not to allow them to – and I do try.
When I create my characters, I have to force myself to create ones who I know would destroy the world I’ve built for myself. It has taken decades for me to feel ready to share my words, because for decades I had been made to feel they were worthless. Of no value. Only fit for ridicule and destruction. And C-PTSD still makes me feel that way sometimes.
I am a survivor. I got out. But before I escaped my abusive relationships, I suffered. It still feels ridiculous to say such things, because I don’t feel brave, or strong, or any of the other labels I’ve been given by those who I’ve shared my experiences with. I’m just me.
Sure, such experiences mean I can write trauma, I can write darkness, I can write pain. I know it intimately. Even if I spent years pretending it didn’t exist. I understand how wearing a mask of stoicism, of joy, can keep someone moving forward when everything crumbles.
And these masks, these pretences, fuelled my imagination and strengthened my intent to use my life in my art. Because if I couldn’t share the truth with those closest to me, then I could pour it out onto paper. I could rip off the mask and be real. I could be me. And it has taken a long time for such honesty to erode the shroud I sought shelter in.
For decades all I knew was hurt. Mental, physical, emotional, sexual hurt.
I was manipulated and made to believe I was without any value, that I was not worthy of anything. My autism and ADHD went undiagnosed until I was almost forty, and that sense of being different was a way for people to take advantage and cause me distress. Couple this with physical health issues, including adenomyosis, endometriosis, and fibromyalgia, meant I was always at something of a disadvantage (which I hate to admit).
It was easy for people to make me believe they were doing me a favour by showing me any kind of affection. And I learnt to adapt, to appease, and to accept.
Those years were hard, and isolating. My abusers were experts at ensuring I was in a position of weakness, of solitude. I relied on my imagination to get through; I needed the escape, and my mind was the only place I was free. It was a refuge while my body endured the repeated abuse and assault, it was security when I was pushed to the brink of destruction. A destruction both inflicted by them and me.
How can I possibly unravel that? My C-PTSD is me, and I am my C-PTSD. The trauma was inflicted, yes, but I am the result. And my creativity is fused with my own self.
The Menagerie, my anthology of short stories and poetry, really highlights these dark facets of my life. Even the happy endings have a lingering melancholy, a lingering sense of potential disaster. It is not always comfortable reading, but then life is not always comfortable. And, now, I want to use my voice, my experience, to hopefully help someone who is still trying to figure out if they are safe where they are.
Does that mean I’d make different choices if I had the chance? Maybe, maybe not. My life has taught me and shaped me. I wouldn’t be who I am without the things which happened to me and I’m not sure if I’d want to be anyone else.
My art imitates my life, and I can’t divide it. I know where the line is drawn. I know who the real Ariadne is. But, perhaps, there’s no need to try and separate the creator from the created in order to tell an honest story, to convey the world, to share what unites us. The barrier is fluid and unnecessary. The creator and the created are unique, and I love how something so united can be produced in so many different ways.
More about Ariadne and her writing: https://linktr.ee/ariadnepautina
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