I’ve been ‘good’ lately. I did a project with my grade fours where they had to make an ’emotion book’. It’s four different self portraits on four different colours with four different thought bubbles describing things which make them feel four different emotions. Pretty revealing stuff, definitely something to have at hand at parents teachers night, that is if the parents might be wondering what goes on in those little big brains. Me, myself, I’m not confessing much, not revealing much, no real outlets of emotions and things that people really just don’t want to be confronted with. And I’m doing OK, I’m not loosing my mind (yet), all this stuff I keep inside is not exactly eating me from the inside out like some poison or negative acid. The best part of not confessing is the sham of self pride: the idea that you keep yourself ‘in tact’ because you don’t show your fragility, you don’t show that you’re a being full, full of cracks and you’re actually on the verge of tumbling down like some decayed building. Nobody is embarrassed for your sake, when you don’t confess anything. My guts don’t belong inside, my heart as well, it should be on my sleeve…but for what it’s worth, at least I don’t confront people with all the gory details at the moment. Who knows, maybe one day, I can confess with what they call ‘grace’.
“Now that confession has become an omnipresent aspect of our daily lives, we no longer think of the power pushing us toward confession as a constraint placed upon us. On the contrary, we have come to think of confession as a way of finding truth, a form of liberation from repressive powers that try to silence us. Foucault writes that we have become “subjects in both senses of the word”: we are subjected to powers that draw confessions from us, and through confession we come to see ourselves as thinking subjects, the subject of confession.” -Michel Foucault, The history of sexuality
images tracey emin