Every Couple of weeks I ask myself, “what’s the point?” In painting, in being a parent, in being a human? Yesterday it happened in my studio. I was working on some abstract pieces, a few I had started the day before. I really liked where they were going, I was intrigued at several different stages. At the end of the day I got 4 out of 30 or 40 that worked somewhat. But I started asking myself what are they ? Why they are? What will they become? I have been after a play between line, paint, and collage in abstraction for nineteen months. The start of the paintings always comes from stream of conciousness and automatic drawing. As I skimmed through photos of my work last night, since I began this quest I can see how much closer I’ve gotten, how much “better” the paintings are today. But I worry about content. Maybe that’s the final hurdle?   Maybe that’s the work, take that out of the equation all together because they do have content. Emotion is part of it, memory, time, the inherent urge and need to be creative, to make stuff. Maybe because of the fall, maybe because of the darkness, I feel the need to work slower, to record time as the clock ticks, not as the whole chunk of time passes. 

The little things. 

I was tired last night, Jack lay his head on my knee sideways as he drank his bottle, the way he looked at me was like he knew I was tired. “I love you mama” his eyes said. 

In the nursery I was laying on the floor, my head resting on my arms, Fiona lay her head next to mine,

“Mama”

In between the frenetic energy, Jack and Fiona have these sweet little moments. The kind where the house is quiet, Jacks investigating his legos on one side of the room, Fionas experimenting with lids and containers on the other side. I sit and listen to clicking of toys, little sounds from the babies, everythings peaceful.  

I love those moments.