A Scream

Felt pretty good

The security guard detects a look on my face that says, “I’m about to do something that may require an incident report.”

I’m in front of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. I might be standing there a little too long.

“Ma’am,” the guard says, preemptively exhausted,, “please don’t …”

And yet, I do.

I step into the painting carrying a cup of hot water, because I’m pretty sure this is proper etiquette if you’re entering a vortex of existential dread.

The sky is unwell: Shrieking in tangerine, streaked with yellow sulfur, and bruised with blue. The air vibrates with the energy of distressing headlines. The screamer is mid‑howl, hands clasped to their face, in a scream that says, “There’s too much STUPIDITY. I can’t take it anymore!”

(Munch made the screamer androgynous to strip away individual identity, thus the pronouns “they/their.”)

“I brought ThroatCoat®,” I say, as if I am the kind of person who solves an existential crisis with herbal tea. I fish a tea bag from my purse, drop it in the cup, and hold it out. The cup looks tiny next to the giant wail.

They blink. Their scream drops a few decibels … but is still on the loud side.

We stand on the bridge: one person in the world’s most famous scream, one person daintily offering tea.

“Try a sip,” I say. “It won’t fix anything, but it’ll feel good on your throat.”

They get quiet for a moment and sip. I slide into guided‑meditation mode, the way one does when one finds oneself inside a classic painting expressing wordless terror, and offers, helpfully, to count to four on the inhale.

“Inhale, two, three, four” I say. “All the way down to the bottom of your surreal belly. Let your shoulders drop and soften your jaw - it’s been quite tense.”

They inhale like someone suspicious of oxygen.

They exhale and their scream settles down to a less anxious key of G.

“Feel the bridge under your feet,” I say. “Feel the warmth of the cup. Imagine a Monet garden: lilies, light, more lilies.

Let the sky relax into a Renoir sunset. Become one green dot in Seurat’s Sunday afternoon … and nothing else.”

“I’ll try,” they say, “but I’m afraid the panic, the noise, the everything will just come back.”

“Oh, it will,” I say. “Anxiety loves a sequel. But you are not the sky. You are the bridge.”

Their skull-shaped head tilts a little in an effort to understand how they are the bridge.

As much as I believe in mindfulness, breath, and tea, there’s also the part of me that read morning headlines and experiences a strong desire to emit a sound that inspires punctuation marks. I want to scream too.

“Scoot over,” I say.

We stand side by side on the bridge, hands to our faces inhaling like we’re about to commit a minor opera and for a moment, we eye each other in the calm-before-the-yell.

Then we let it rip into a single, sustained choir of vowels.. OOOooooooo AAAAAOOOO AOooooooUUUooo!!!!

It’s magnificent: a lovely, ragged, operatic howl that gathers wars, wildfires, graphs, opinions, headlines, and lies, and flings them into one nonsensically sustained note. Ugly, cathartic, unspiritual, and deeply satisfying. The two people headed our way on the bridge make an immediate but politely inconspicuous U‑turn.

I’m pretty sure the guard hears nothing but in here, we’re shouting frustration out of our souls and stupidity out of the universe (as much as possible).

When we stop, the sky’s drama is now more interesting than threatening.

We look at each other: windblown by metaphor, eyes wide, mouths hollowed, clutching a teacup like a microphone.

We look ridiculous. We start laughing - a full, helpless laugh that shakes loose the hues of the panicking sky.

“If Munch had painted The Laugh,” I tell them, “We would’ve had to hold this pose for eternity.” I open my mouth wide with the edges turned up like a clown. We laugh again.

“That felt… good,” they say.

“For me too,” I say, mildly dehydrated.

We stand there a moment longer, two figures on a bridge who have exercised their right to be famously messy and human.

“Okay,” I say. “Back to the railing.”

They nod, clutching the cup, holding the rail. The sky has downgraded from catastrophe to pissed‑off sunset. We inhale and sigh it out.

I feel complete. As I step toward the frame, they lift one hand in farewell, then return it to their face. Continuity is important in art.

“Thanks for the scream duet,” they say.

“Enjoyed it.” I reply.

I slip out into the temperature‑controlled gallery. The colors flatten back onto the canvas.

The guard hustles over, eyes wide. “Where’d you go?” he asks.

I look at The Scream. The painting looks exactly the same, but on the railing there’s a cup of tea…. pretty sure.

“Had a good yell,” I say. “Very therapeutic.”

He checks the painting. He sees no evidence of misconduct. “Ohhkay,” he says, incredulously.

We stand together, two people in front of one eternal panic, quietly appreciating the strange, civilized luxury of occasionally losing it … …and discovering something in us still holds.

_____——————–—____________—————-_________————

Imagine stepping into any artwork you love (or even one that unsettles them), bring one small, comforting object with you: a cup of tea, a chair, a joke, a cat, a color. Have them interact with the scene: What changes, even slightly? What would you like to change? (Straighten a cloud? or offer emotional support to a tree?).

Breathe,

Jill

Join me in a Creativity Zoom workshop inspired by Ireland… so sheep, cows, and chickens. If you’re one of the ones who thinks you’re not creative or artistic, it’s okay. Be afraid and do it anyway. My workshops are for the clumsy, intimidated, and “I’m not good enough” population, as well as those who need a dose of creativity to keep from screaming 24/7.

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$27 for anyone else. More information here.