Shooting Of Butterfly

 

 

Title: Shooting Of Butterfly, a concept of feminism and society

Medium: Acrylic, canvas, toy guns, plastic butterfly, glue

By: Clara G. Herrera

Enriching music: Perfect, Pink; Born This Way, Lady Gaga

Behind this piece: This turned out nothing like I thought it would. In the beginning, there was no butterfly, and the toy guns were to be ripped off after the paint dried to reveal their shadows in acrylic black and hot pink. The only concept that stayed were the pastel Easter colors of paint. Everything else is different than the vision I had created in my head. 

It just, became, down to the last detail. 

I left it to dry in my backyard, where I do most of my painting. The wind blew it off of the easel. The next morning it was flecked with dirt.

 Feminine, beautiful, dirty, all at the same time.

Funny how the mind works and how art happens.

In the end, it became this. It is my testament to the feminine spirit, represented by the butterfly, beautiful, flying freely, unable to be caught. The fake child-like guns are an overstatement of the bombardment women and girls face throughout a lifetime toward themselves and by society. Too much ammunition, big guns to shoot and try to kill or wound something so delicate.

 The toy guns form a cross of the female embodiment: Mind, Spirit, Body, Heart

We are always second guessing ourselves, us women, even as girls. The quest for perfection, and clearing the grime we imagine others see in ourselves, and what we see in us on the outside and inside never ends. It is an unachievable goal. Yet, we continue the quest.

Mind: Am I too stupid? Am I too smart? What if I say something stupid? What if I say something smart?

Spirit: Am I too joyful? Am I depressed? Am I me? Who am I? What do I believe? Why don't I believe in myself? What is wrong with me? What is right with me? 

Body: Am I the right shape? Do I need to lose weight? Should I buy a pushup bra? Does this make me look fat? Why did I eat that cake?

Heart: Do I love enough? Am I loved? Will someone love me? Why would they? What is love, really? Why don't I love myself?

This the end:

This is the middle: 

This is mid-middle:

This is the beginning: