“We are all connected, there is no me without you”. I feel a great excitement about the show in which I am a collaborator; Titled: Simpatico, showing with Carl Heyward, we will display solo works as well as collaborative pieces, at the Fourth Wall Gallery, Susan Aulik’s place. The energy generated by being involved in this project has been amazing. “From the efforts of one with another emerges entity, THE THIRD MIND” Carl Heyward. I found out we would get the opportunity to participate in a show at the Fourth Wall Gallery last year. It was before the San Francisco International DADA show, which GAP, Global Arts Project, was highly involved in, creating visual work, as well as a performance piece. We also were coming off a show at Room Gallery; a beautiful show. I was disappointed that not one of my works sold, only one artist sold work, even though each piece in the show was stellar. I started feeling disillusioned by all the effort and money it takes to have shows, and couldn’t understand why nobody buys work? I went to the Fourth Street Gallery on a first Friday, opening night. I brought my babies, brother, and his girlfriend. We ate Ethiopian food first, super yummy! We walked down Telegraph Avenue to 25Th street, it was dark out, it was the first time I brought the babies to Oakland; My old stomping ground. I couldn’t believe the change that had taken place on that block, First Fridays: Food Trucks, cool earrings to buy, people, lots of people, there were lots of cops too. On the corners and around the perimeters. When I saw the Galleries I was in Shock. I had heard of Vessel, someone I knew had shown there, but I never made it by; It was a friend of my mom and I’s, my mom had just died, I was really sad. I lived on 19Th and Union in West Oakland for a while. I had an awesome studio in an old warehouse: Dark, lots of old machinery and old office stuff laying around. We’d get stoned and go down there and look at stuff. (We lost our space when a developer came and built fancy, expensive lofts: Circa 1999. We were pissed) I remember nights at the Stork Club where my best friends band, The Kirby Grips used to play. We’d dress up in boots and skirts, dance, get drunk, and ride our bikes home, looking down every street for the pack of wild pitbulls. As I walk down the hall towards the Fourth Wall Gallery there are shiny, pretty paintings on the white walls, bright lights, I peer into the other Galleries, some I go in, investigate further. Pricing is high here, except for a craftsman who makes cool political found art stuff, I can’t remember his name (Bad reporting here) The Fourth Wall Gallery is Gorgeous and Susan Aulik is an inspiring woman and has a deep connection with painting, being an artist, and being a supporter and soldier for the arts communities’. I feel fortunate to have met her! When I left Oakland that night I felt a bunch of emotional feelings. The way things had changed was both amazing and wonderful and I also felt there was still a disconnect. Art is so expensive, most people don’t have $4000 to spend on a piece of art. Susan, Carl, and I agreed we wanted more people to be able to own art, make art assessable for more people. But the question is, How low do you go? I proposed a sliding scale. But I’m crazy. We’re also going to have a big sale in December with lots of other artists! The ways the past merges with the present and informs the future is crazy. I don’t know why but that sentence just made me think of Diarrhea. When one person gets it you know it’s gonna make the rounds! Why would I even think of something like that? I better get down to the studio before Jack and Fiona wake up. I probably have an hour left.
Category: art
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I’ve learned how to paint on canvas. I’ve learned a lot about painting working in my notebooks. A lot of work done during naptimes. Thank god I just go in my studio and start working. Today I feel awful, my whole body aches. I think I have swine flu. But I put those babies in their room and went straight to my studio. Earlier today, while Jack and Fiona were at school I went and bought some beautiful Gallery Canvas, 40×40. It is the largest I’ve worked on in a serious manner. It felt free and wonderful to have all that space. I might add some lines when they dry, but I really like what came out of me today. One of the paintings was about this dream I had lastnight. I was getting my teeth cleaned and so was Jack. We had our apointments at the same time. I could see him through the crack of the door with his blue blue in his mouth. I heard him cry. I asked the dentist, “can I call my mom, she can come help me”. We were in Oakland and my mom works in Oakland, I think to myself. He hands me a phone, I start dialing: vl7d, no, that’s wrong. I try again and again, checking the number on my cell phone. It’s dark, I can’t see very well and my fingers won’t push the right buttons. My mom is dead, was I missing her and wanting her here with me? Yesterday I was looking at one of her paintings; the one she said, “Jenny, this is my best painting ever, its what I want to paint like”. Did that stir her up?
I thought this morning of how Jack and Fiona won’t be wearing diapers soon, only six months-max. They won’t be my little babies anymore. I’ve been writing messages to them in notebooks. I think they will appreciate it.”while you guys were sleeping Mommy was painting in her studio” I’ll write to them. Thank you for being such wonderful children and taking your naps! What will happen to naptime paintings when Jack and Fiona do stop taking naps? And their little baby bellies and chubbie cheeks disappear? I’ll miss it. I’ll miss this stage of motherhood, even though its so fucken hard sometimes! It has been an amazing soul quenching journey.
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I hear a thump and a cry. Heart racing: too much food in Billy’s bowl, “good job Fiona, I’m just going to put a little back”. Open lid of dog food container, putting back food, THUMP. That’s when I hear it. Four feet away, look: Jack’s on floor prone, crying. “Fuck, are you O.K.?” Examine. Feel lump on back of head. I’m scared. I’m not scared. Read lots of books. There are lots of blood vessels in toddler heads. Causes lump to rise quickly, produce large amounts of blood. It’s O.K. and not a big deal unless your kids loses consciousness. He cries. I hold. I rock. I apply ice. Fiona cries. Holds Blue Blue sucking her thumb on the couch. “No, we can’t meet you at the park today. Uggh, tomorrow” Play the excavator song. Sit on chair with Jack, apply ice. Give Jack and Fiona each a cookie. Paint my body orange and blue. Put a picture of my painted breast on facebook. Worry I’ll never get a job as a teacher. Worried I’ll have a breakdown. Babies go to nap. Go straight to studio. Paint. Feeling better. Can’t help it if I’m an artist. Can’t help it if I value art. Can’t help it if I don’t give a fuck. Can’t help if I express. Can’t help it if I’m sensitive, tender hearted and cry. Don’t wanna help it. Don’t wanna change it. I show Jack and Fiona the pictures of me in Mexico with horses and alligators and turtles in the ocean. With little tiny dogs in mens pockets. At the beach, at the beach, at the beach.I think how they are looking at me, smiling on the sand, in the dunes, in the dessert, by the ocean bright red hair and a smile. The East Bay. There is a point at which we break. A point in a moment, in a day, in a lifetime when we need to rest our minds, escape from the mouse trap. But there are those who sit and laugh at the dumbest stuff. They take importance of material things, not on deep emotions and empathy. Dogs require empathy, even though they only live a short time I think we need to understand they run on instinct, not material attachments. Impulse. Destruction. I’m emotional about my dog. And Jacks head and Fiona’s cough. I’m acting out by painting my boobs orange and blue and putting pictures on facebook. My dog fucked up again. My kids have had their own emotional struggles I’ve had to give myself, my gut, my heart, my reserves to be there for, to consul, to love, to feel. And I have. Every minute of every day, and I’m grateful and proud and know I’ve done the right thing 100% as a mother and a wife. It takes every morsel of strength I have to raise twins. It’s all right at the center of my chest, like pain and love. It carries from inside out and as it comes in and out I take in the world and all it’s pain too and sometimes it’s too much. Then I realize I’ve been away from my studio for too long. I go in and release the accident, the cough, the outburst. I paint my body blue and orange and take pictures and post it on facebook, I paint on four canvases I’ve been working on, I write. And as naptime starts to wind down and come to an end I feel a bit better, a bit more relaxed, and ready to jump into the mess. To start little by little picking up the cheerios, tomatoes, plastic spoons; which reminds me of the RaceTrack beach we ventured to the other day. We brought buckets to collect shells. Red, yellow, blue, tiny little pieces of plastic, caps and tops and plastic strings, plastic flossers, we collected them as I wondered, did they come from that giant garbage pile of trash in the ocean? And now here, at home as I raise my family and my garbage pail fills with plastic every day, every day. I feel ashamed. I must change.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 