I’m sitting in a black and white skull dress in front of a grouping of black and white drawings; A powerful portrait in charcoal by William Kentridge hangs on the wall in front of me. I think to myself, don’t need to rush, I can spend as much time as I need to. I stand in front of white canvases listening to the collage of footsteps, how they echo from the other side of the wall, no faces, only sound. Jasper Johns paintings, every time I see them I look at them in a new light. I recognize a piece of myself, understanding things in these paintings I hadn’t understood before. I have moments of memory flash through my being, remembering sitting in front of these giant Clifford Stills, on my lunch break, or after work on my way to Bart. I spent so much time at MOMA I wonder how much influence these Abstract Expressionistic paintings had on my practice. The Rothko, Joan Mitchell, Jay Defeo, Guston, Lobell paintings I know. I feel like I’m with good old friends. I haven’t seen them in so long; I’ve only been once since they remodeled and that time was with kids. I miss my days in the MOMA, alone. Visiting galleries. I feel like I climbed back over a bridge to a part of myself deep down inside. Today I needed a break, a bath, studio time, writing time. So, Right when we got home today from preschool, I put the babies down for a nap. They fell asleep around 1:30PM. (An hour earlier than usual.) It was so hot and they were so tired and I needed what I needed. It worked out perfectly. Today in my studio I paint in shades of blues, inspired by our meditation on water this morning. I feel like hanging them up in my house to cool things off. My note book entries are beauties too, and I closed the cover of one more note book for my show. I love the quiet right now. I only hear the fridge, the air conditioner and fan. It’s dead hot and quiet outside. Jack and Fiona will be waking from their nap soon. Time to go and make snack!
Category: cultivating patience
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I have a Dream. I walk by the door of the Gallery, my show is being installed. I can see three small framed portraits being hung, the installers say, “not yet”, they don’t want me to see yet. I wake up. I want to clean my studio. Something inside is leading me, a part of me more certain than emotions or intellectualism. I clean, throw away, I paint all the paintings on board, on canvas, white. All the paintings I’m so-so about. I haven’t been able to work in my studio the past couple Of weeks. I write and complain, it’s because my kids won’t take their naps anymore, its because they are being bad, its because they aren’t giving me any space. I throw away three bags of trash from my studio. I throw away paintings on paper that never worked, that scattered the floor, my press, under my table. I throw away junk left from frantic studio sessions, old yogurt containers with dried yogurt. I couldn’t work in my studio because it was too cluttered with the past. Not because of motherhood. Now there’s space here. I create a special corner for Fiona with her easel and her art supplies. I haven’t had a chance to paint yet; I have all my notebooks opened up to clean white pages, painting surface after painting surface gessoed with only ghosts showing from what was. Fiona tells me she wants to paint in her new spot; It’s after 5:00, I should be making dinner. Alan is playing with Jack in the house; Fiona and I go in my studio, she starts painting, cutting string, gluing, she is completly absorbed in the process. I start drawing, reacting with new lines and reacting with lines that connect with the ghosts of the past paintings. Jack comes in and says he wants to throw paint. I set him up with a canvas and black paint, he starts splattering the paint, Jackson Pollock style. I continue to work, my head feels light and my body free from the neck work I did in yoga this morning. Fiona and I paint for almost two hours together. Alan comes in and says he’s getting really hungry and it’s really late. I tell Fiona, we clean up. I go upstairs and make dinner. I have a dream last night: I’m re-writing a story to read out loud, I get up in front of a group of people and I can’t read myown writing. Its so confusing, I can’t tell what happened to the words. I try to skim it and fill in the blanks, I’m so confused. I wake up and here I am.
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I sit myself next to the kitchen window so I can see when Jack, Fiona, and Alan get home. Alan took them down to the park. They wouldn’t take their nap and when he got home I was at my wits end with a sink full of dishes and a look of despair on my face. How can a three-year-old boy, so sweet, so smart, be so difficult? My son Jack is pushing me to the limit. I have started thinking he is a bad influence on Fiona, wondering if it’s time to give them their own rooms? Alan says no, it’s too early. Today when Jack and I went to pick up Fiona, Jack clung to my leg. He wanted me to carry him back to our car. “No, I’ll hold your hand” I say. I am holding Fiona’s hand, she is wanting to go, she pulls me a little, but I tell her to wait. “Jack, are you ready to walk?” I ask. He cries, holds tighter. I start to walk a little, he gets up and says, “No”, he hits me and grabs my shirt. I feel like crying. We finally get to my car, I put Fiona in her car seat first; Jack sneaks by me into the car, he plays the same annoying game of not getting into his seat, moving from front to back so I can’t catch him. “I am not taking you anywhere until you start listening to me” I say. He finally gets in his seat. On our way home, we stop for smoothies, I give Jack and Fiona a health food brownie to share. Jack wants more, I say no, he cries. At home I give them a nice hot bath, dress them in clean, comfy clothes, and read a book. It’s nap time. I want to lay down myself. I try to rest, I hear Jack and Fiona playing and laughing. It’s O.K., I think to myself. After 45 minutes, I go in, Jacks in the sink letting water flow over onto the floor, Fiona is on the counter with toothpaste all over her body, and the mirror,I have to give her a shower.
The moment they leave I get online, I search for figure drawing workshops, or groups. I received an invitation for a Figure Drawing Intensive next week at SFAI, all week long 10-4. I fantasized about going, tried to think who could watch the kids? Then I thought, this is what I need, figure drawing, just draw for hours from a model, how amazing and good for my soul would that be? I quickly realize it’s a pipe dream, not possible now. I finish cleaning the kitchen, start the dinner and they are home. Jack and Fiona run up the stairs, laughing, they run right outside to the back yard. I feel a little bit sad that my presence at this moment is so inconsequential, but glad at the same time so I can finish preparing dinner in peace. “Mom Fiona needs you!” Jack comes running in to tell me. I thought I heard crying before. I go outside, Fiona is laying flat on her face, I pick her up and her mouth and chin are bleeding. She was climbing on the swing and fell off. I hold her until she feels better. Dinner time is difficult, Jack doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t want to put on pants, makes a mess in the bathroom, knocks over the doll house, then as I’m telling him, “Don’t sit on the window sill, stop playing with the blind” He falls out the window onto the deck. A huge lump forms on the back of his head. I go outside to pick Jack up, Fiona leans out the window and starts laughing at Jack. All Jack wants to do now is go to sleep, it’s 6:30pm.
All night I worry, is there something wrong with Jack, why is he so difficult? Why won’t he listen to me? Fiona is so easy, so sweet. I’ve started going to Yoga again and meditating. It helps, to remind myself on a continual basis of the quiet sanctuary I have access to any where ,any time. I go back to breath, knowing I’ve been through so many challenging things in life, knowing I can get through anything. I know my studio will be waiting for me, I have been drawing a lot, and drawing with Fiona which is so wonderful. She loves to draw, I feel so lucky to have a daughter that loves art. Before we picked up Jack at school today Fiona and I went to the art store and bought sketch pads and new pens. At the park I sat and sketched while the babies played, until Jack took off all his clothes. I put his pants back on him twice, then I was over it and let him be naked until we left. Fiona sat and sketched in her new sketch pad with her new pens next to me, under the oak tree, on the little bench at Castle Park. I have to fight with Jack to get his pants on before we leave. Back home I lock them in their room, turn on the TV and take a shower. I finish writing this, which I started yesterday, now I hear them calling for me. My heart flutters a bit with anxiety. I really can’t take a night of tantrums and talking and asking me for things I don’t want them to have to eat. I just want a nice relaxing evening. What can I do to accomplish this with three year old twins? Two children that are very different. If it was just Fiona it would be a breeze, we could read books, play with stuffed animals, practice sign language, I could give her a bath and feed her dinner, then put her to bed without a hitch. Not Jack. I get anxiety just thinking about it. I really do. I love him so much, I miss the old Jack, my sweet boy. The boy who loved me reading books to him. What should I do?
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 