This past July, my beloved writing companion Beth, bluntly asked me about the progress I was making on writing a memoir that I had entitled Black Rectangles taken from a short story I had written about a 1962 confrontation between my mother and me, a confrontation that appeared to completely obfuscate how I saw myself. It was that moment when, to paraphrase Graham Greene, the door opened and let the future in, a future that because of this confrontation, would be dark and torturous.

I told Beth that after drafting 220+ pages of the memoir over a 30-year-period, I had lost steam. She wondered if it was because the memoir was focused more on my mother’s impact on me rather than how I had overcome that impact.

“Look at your art collection,” said Beth. “All your poetry. Aren’t these ways you were empowered to see yourself as something separate from your mother? Isn’t your survival, evidenced all around you in your home, your real story?”

Something about what she said felt right. So I began anew. I “excavated” my current art collection — begun in 1983 — to see what it revealed. I catalogued more than 200 pieces of art representing 65+ artists from around the country. I then took stock.

Why had I purchased so much art when I lived in a small, 840-square-foot home with limited wall space? Why did most of it focus on the female form? And why were most of the eyes on those figures missing or hidden in some way?

Duh. It was a response to Black Rectangles. It was a way I had found — unbeknownst to me until now — to fill in the rectangles with something other than the color black. It was the way I had chosen to fill in the rectangles with how I saw myself, not with how my mother saw me.

In the weeks ahead, I plan to regularly post about other revelations I’m unearthing (because I am writing everyday) in what I am calling “Eye Openings” — a new category on Spark and Spitfire. Keep an eye out.

BLACK AND WHITE  POST PHOTO:  “Fleur No. 4” (1992) by Catriona Fraser, purchased from the photographer in 1994.