I’m Disgusting and Wonderful

“it’s not healthy to keep eating a whole bunch” I say to Jack. He wants another Klondike cookie sandwich ice cream. They are good. I could eat another one too. It’s hot today. Very Hot! But it’s also National Beer day, I’m drinking a Lagunitas IPA. I had a good day in the studio. Painted like crazy, feel a bit crazy, like manic. Maybe it’s the time of year. The most remarkable things happen on late fall nights. Under a clear sky, stars in view. Inspired by the grey squirrel, jumps from one trunk to another. “Hello squirrel, what are you doing?” I ask. He doesn’t tell me, he keeps going up higher and higher into the trees. I go to my studio, hot from my hike. I stink. I start to paint. I get paint on my good yoga clothes. I am disgusting. I take a shower. Feel better. Paint more. Paint stains on my arm. My hands disgusting. I am disgusting and wonderful. My daughter draws beside me. “Color, color, color color” she says, over and over as she scribbles with a pen. “This is all the water” she says. “with a butt. With a vagina.” A cup of beer and dirty hands. I’m so glad Hugh Hefner is dead. Someone wrote “good bye to the father of Patriarchy” on Facebook. An article said he changed the way we think about sex. When I think of the porn industry and the primping and prepping and sculpting of women. Making us think we need to perform in a certain sexual way, look a certain way, think a certain way, I say Fuck You Hugh Hefner. I thought about how I got mad at a male painter. In his catalogue he talked about his work and how he went to the rain forest for years working on these wonderful paintings and notebooks. He had kids. I wondered how he did it. They stayed home with their mother. I was mad. I said it’s not fair. Then I had kids. I kept working, I kept studio hours. I created. Now I have a book about to be published and an art show coming up at a fine Gallery. I have a vagina and boobs and wrinkles and a crazy old mind. But I keep on working.   

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About Dirty Laundry Blog

Thoughts on Motherhood Through the Eyes of an Artist