I’m doing something bad right now. I’m drinking a cup of coffee and eating cookies, it’s 1:00PM in the afternoon. There goes all that hard work on the spin bike, here comes a night of possible insomnia. But it tastes so good, so right. Now I have that rush of warmth, a full belly. One hour into my studio time. Dunce Nation and Dead Moles. Experimental Music, screeching, and hollering in the background. Already gone too far on a piece, want to keep working on it to “fix it” but we all know how that goes. Now, 2:46PM. Good painting session so far, see I told you I would feel differently again. The highs and the lows, the ups and the downs. Now the fan is on and The Bells by Lou Reed. The ambient noise is perfect for quiet awakenings, for R.I.P. Mole, and new beginnings. Perfect for reminiscing about yesterday’s daisies and tomorrows brunch. Do I come back to this moment or do I walk up the stairs to the dog house and the dead mole. “Oh no, the poor thing, Billy killed a mole. Don’t touch it. Should I bury it or throw it over the fence for the hawk or an owl? I should throw it over the fence. Poor thing, Billy killed it, it’s dead.” I tell Jack and Fiona. It’s right here, right in front of us. Happening live, I can’t hide reality. Maybe two’s too young to understand death, understand here today, gone tomorrow. I’ve never got the image of my mom’s mom lying in her casket. I imagine her in a light blue dress with a white lace collar, her casket taupe. My mom said I had to stay home because it wasn’t appropriate for little kids to look inside a casket. I’ve never seen anyone in a casket. I’ve only spread ashes. Felt the bits of bones run through my hands, had the wind blow my ancestors’ through my hair, in my mouth, on my teeth. What brought me here? The dead mole? My job as teacher to Jack and Fiona, reminding me of all my knowledge, all that I know. I had a good day in the studio today.
Category: art
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Could it have been that my sacred space was disrupted, that creating the baby zone temporarily restricted my freedom and sanctuary I’ve always felt when coming to work? (can I still call it work if I don’t get paid?) That the space I gave up was the same space I preferred working in, laying all my pieces out on the floor, painting and gluing, making a mess, not caring what state I left my studio in because it was mine and mine alone. Now there is possibility of Jack, Fiona, Alan, the babysitter, coming in here, anytime. I can’t leave supplies in reach. I have to pick up and keep track of push pins. I can’t leave containers of indigo blue watercolor out. At a time when I feel like my artwork is as meaningless as the presidential election this year, I can only assume I am going through a period of great change, of give and take, of worth and self-esteem, periods of nothingness, sadness, loneliness, paired with great happiness and love, family, warmth, and safety. Food and shelter, tomato plants and an herb garden, the sun and the birds, the regularity, home.
I must conquer these demons, take out this brush, this paint, the voice inside me, not worried if the things I do have value, not fret about the cost of supplies and babysitters because what is the alternative? To sit mute in a chair in the corner? I will learn how to share my most personal, deepest, darkest, self, open to interpretation. I have to risk everything to speak and live and parent and be a part of this society, of my community. I need to let them, see me, and I need to really see them. Something deep and meaningful. No holds bar.
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A steady stream of ants crawls down the window sill to the edge of the sink and back up again, round and round, I notice pain in my right hand and realize once again I’m gripping all my fingers except one, my typing finger. I type with one finger, my back hurts and I’m a perimenopausal woman. I’m finally starting to admit to myself I may be a manic depressive just like my mom, and share many more of her undesirable traits, especially in regards to how the male population views these stereotypical undesirable traits women tend to have. As Such. My need to be part of my community. My desire to create and share it with the world. My unconditional no holds bar to my babies. My constant need to protect myself and others and care about the world and people and animals, to feel that I am dying with the ignorance of humanity but to know that is just a reflection of how I am feeling at this moment. Something inside me is unsettled. Why? Why did I jump on all those Trains and Buses when I was young? But now I want to stay put. Nestled in a mountain. In a bird nest with my chicks. Why does my heart race? Why am I hit over the head and knocked out in my nightmare and I wake up panicked by a nightmare so awful it could never be repeated in detail to a single person? I have to go to my studio right now and paint. Before Jack and Fiona wake up from their nap. I have an hour and a half.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 