Reflection, Renewal, & What Can't Be Repaired

Bob Freyer’s BROKEN at Ketchup City Creative

An eclectic array of frames bursts with bright, even surprising pops of color. Surreal landscapes come alive through the motion of heavy, childlike brushstrokes. Throughout several pieces, a mischievous-looking character grins and bares its horns, fangs, and –  yes, that’s an angel’s halo. This is the world of Bob Freyer’s BROKEN as presented at Ketchup City Creative in Sharpsburg. The style of the collection could easily speak to something escapist, a fantastical place with little connection to the real world. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. In this show, Freyer breaks his heart open for the world to see.

 I make a sweep through the two dozen pieces of BROKEN armed only with the knowledge in its press release: that the show confronts mingled feelings of sadness and hope as the artist sorts through the broken pieces of himself. Bob is there on opening night, happy to discuss the work and what’s behind it. I mention I’m curious about his process – whether the theme came first, or followed as the pieces came together, and instead of giving the simple either/or answer, Bob opens right up about the inspiration: he painted them all while navigating a divorce. With two kids in the mix,  and countless emotions to weather, creating the pieces of BROKEN became his therapy.

 With Bob so forthcoming about the realities of where this series came from, I feel I owe it another glimpse. Or two. I circle back around, giving a deeper look. At my side, I know my friend Mike – also going through a divorce – is having his own resonant experience on this walkthrough. We both watch the pieces take on new life, and chat with Bob along the way: he tells us how every frame was thrifted. He removed some of the original pieces to replace them with his own, while with others he painted right over the old canvas. It’s a way of reclaiming something discarded, we all agree, taking something perhaps unwanted and giving it new meaning. While Bob greets others feeding into the gallery, Mike and I notice more of the recurring themes: the angel/devil dichotomy of the character who often sports both horns and halo. Smiling suns with empty eyes. Ever-present swords, in one hand or both. It becomes clear: this is a battlefield. We're in the trenches. And they're in technicolor.

 Mike and I leave, having taken in our fill, and conversation spins out between us: about art, our aesthetic tastes, our joys and struggles with being creative, our joys and struggles of being ourselves. I go home energized by both the show and the conversations though the night, feeling seen and liking what I saw.

 I reach out to Bob in the following days because I want to know more. Years ago as a graduate student, I became struck by the idea of the intimacy of artistic creation, and the vulnerability it takes to share it. Now here, in Bob’s work and in his honesty about its origins, I find my old theories in practice. I ask if, through the show, he’s connected with viewers who might be dealing with their own demons. Bob mentions that someone told him he depicts “sadness with bright and hopeful colors,” and I am compelled to revisit the works yet again. Their analysis nails why I felt so drawn to these unexpected splatters of color; why it’s so standout, and so honest – how rare is it that we feel only one emotion at a time, especially when going through a world-shifting chapter in our lives? Depression isn’t just greys and blacks and deep blues. There’s a pop of bright here and there – something unexpected that makes you smile, or that spark of hope you’re desperately trying to keep alive. There’s also that tricky little angel/devil character. The horns and halo let us see and feel the multiple versions of us that exist simultaneously: the broken and the healed, the villain and the hero, the defeated and the hopeful. Emotions are multifaceted – humans are multifaceted. BROKEN reflects that with bright, raw honesty.

 More than Bob's use of color to express feeling, the collection as a whole allows viewers to come into dialogue with their own inner worlds. He tells me that a close friend of his, after seeing BROKEN, said that the show expressed exactly how they felt. Knowing Bob's story, and seeing it depicted on canvas, led them to an experience that they described as a rebirth: “For that specific person it was spiritual,” Bob recounts. His friend isn’t alone, though. Bob went through his own full circle moment through the show’s production. He tells me about working through the dark emotions that arose while building BROKEN, reflecting on the parts of himself that still need work, but also “gaining small wins along the way.” Just like his paintings, myriad emotions fill the back story that led to their creation. Some have healed, or are on their way to it, and some will have to remain fractured. And finally, now that they have been poured out of him in the form of his art, Bob says that, upon the show's closing, he has "a feeling of completion from this series." It's a kind of closure, even with its still-open wounds, that not everyone gets; but it's a gift Bob is able to give to himself.

He may not have intended or even expected it, but with BROKEN, Bob has created a space where all our ugliest, most hopeful emotions can be witnessed. In our discussion, he mentions that he used to have trouble talking to viewers about his work. If they asked what a piece meant, he’d turn the question back and ask what it meant to them instead. It was a clever, if evasive, tactic to skirt the more personal details while still spurring the conversation forward. Bob wanted to know what it meant to them, because he was afraid of how they’d react to hearing what it meant to him. But now we’re in a new space where it can be both: what do we see? What do we feel, how are we, as individuals, processing whatever it is that we’re going through? Yes, BROKEN is deeply personal. And at the same time, it speaks to a singular perspective of a universal experience: the difficult terrain of confronting the damaged parts of yourself. And in sharing that perspective, there can be healing: for the creator, for the viewer. For those brave enough to wade into the technicolor trenches and come out on the other side.

With all its contrast and unrefined honesty, I don’t think BROKEN asks much from its audience, except this simple request: to “be here” for a little while. Witness the product of these very raw emotions, and let them take on new life in your imagination. Let it connect with something broken inside you. If you are as open as the artist has been, it will be easy to access – if not so easy to heal.

Bob Freyer's works, including the whole of the BROKEN collection, can be found at bfreyerart.com.