Once the babies were settled in, and I walked the dog, ate a tuna fish sandwich, filled my water bottle, ate a piece of chocolate, I entered my studio. I examined five canvases-I decided to tear off the existing paintings and re-stretch new canvas, “should I go get canvas?” No. I took down and examined my nap time paintings from the day before, put them on my ever growing pile of “work on paper” I love. “should I take my work to be framed for Room Gallery Show” No. “should I start organizing my work and studio for my studio visit next week” No.
I start working on my GAP book, no, I can’t show you any pictures of that. It starts to hum. I pull out paper, rip it in half, go to rip it again.No. My papers always too small for what I have to say or show. I set up my press. Tension on. Blankets. I print with fabric I made into an apron last week. Today I cut it up. Use the pieces for collage and collograph.
I print, paint, glue. I give myself three full hours, but I end up taking five. I work like a mad woman. I am mad. The book I’m re-purposing is called Lives of the Painters. There is not one woman represented. All Men. Women were ommited from Art History books. Is it because they were home taking care of the children? When I was trying to get pregnant more than one women artist warned me “Don’t have kids, you won’t be able to be an artist and have kids” we aren’t as free as men when we have kids, we can’t spend the whole day and night painting and smoking cigarettes. Then dedicate time to promote ourselves, get into galleries. There’s only so much time in a day. I don’t think our fight is over. This examination fueled my studio practice yesterday. As I write my baby boy Jack is calling for me. It’s time for breakfast, time for mom, the woman of the house. Last night I got in trouble when I said I wasn’t cooking, I was going to get us, my husband and I salads. I just didn’t have time, I needed that extra hour in the studio.