This is the deal, right here. Black and white, legs stretched out wide, she’s a beautiful dog. Content because I took her for a walk. Making GREAT headway on my book, Nap Time Paintings. In fact, I have learned more the way that things have gone than if they had gone how I imagined they would. I figured I was paying the publishing company to layout my writings and illustrations beautifully. Tt would look fantastic. I found out, Artistically I am required to make all the decisions if I want it to look good, how I imagine it looking. Mind Blowing. You learn something new every day. I want to paint now. I have an hour. I also want to take my paintings to the frame shop. My new Book, School Time Paintings By Jenny Hynes. Catch ya on the rebound.
Category: moods
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Process of Grief. “I feel so depressed” I say to myself. “I’m so tired” I say as I yawn a big mouth yawn. Trying to exercise, to eat, to stay up past 7:30pm, to not snap at my children. Take a deep breath. In the nose, out the mouth. “Why am I saying these things to myself, about myself?” It’s not normal? Is it just PMS? Is it just not having enough free time to myself? Or am I this way? Is the world the way I think it is? What’s true? What’s not? What matters? What doesn’t? I find myself several times picking up my phone to check Facebook , to see if anyone posted anything, to read about what horrors are going on in America and around the world. To be reminded of scum or told to just forget about it, don’t think about it. I forget that I deleted my Facebook account. And then I feel relieved I am not part of that right now. My heart is starting to beat fast, this was supposed to be a time of relaxation. Jack and Fiona are taking their nap; the house is quiet. I’ve worked in my studio, taken a shower, and here my mind goes again, in the loop. I think, “I should be happy.” Why am I so down? The election has taken a real toll on me, the Trump presidency and the Bannon appointment. I feel like I’m panicking. I could try to make myself believe I’ll be fine so I shouldn’t worry so much. I don’t want to put my head in the sand like an ostrich. I don’t want to become a medicated zombie. I don’t want to go crazy. Where is there balance? I remember growing up and hearing my mom and her boyfriend talk about Carter and Reagan. They said Reagan was bad. I didn’t know what that meant, I just Knew our house didn’t like Reagan. When I became old enough to vote my mom had stopped voting. “Why mom? How can you not vote?” I asked her. She told me it didn’t matter anymore, that everyone was corrupt. Around this same time she told me she “Hated white people”. I wonder what my mom would say if she were alive today. Maybe she wouldn’t be as surprised as me. I was naïve. I thought things were getting better, but they were festering. Now I’m festering, trying to keep a grip. I am in the midst of raising twins in the heart of a dramatic developmental stage. During the breaking apart of mother and baby, I still want Jack and Fiona to be my little babies, they still want me to baby them. But they are getting bigger and finding their own independence and individuality. I am also changing, some by choice, some not. I must be more stern now, Jack and Fiona are heavy, strong, loud. They need direction and supervision almost all the time. The only time it’s easier now is at the park. I can sit and eat my lunch while they run off and play on the structures. It’s relaxing. There’s just a dark cloud hanging over my heart and mind. I feel like my mom died all over again, that type of shock. I feel like crying.
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Painting. Why do we paint? What are we painting for? Who are we painting for? What are we trying to communicate in our paintings, if anything? How has Facebook changed our lives as painters, with a 24-hour audience? How has being painters altered our lives? How does it alter our day to day activities? How we look at and respond to the world? Do we have a collective voice? Are we bonded as painters? Have we become one?
Naptime. Friday. Paintings worked on, getting closer to where I want to go. The layering, the foggy, dusty eyes. Texture creating memory, on the canvas becoming a rivers edge, always changing, eroding and coming back again. On paper, in my notebooks a moment. A flash of time, a scrap of paper with paint drops from several painting sessions, a little mini journal on my studio floor. A tiny scrap, taking on a life of its own. Walked on, stomped on, drawn on, glued on. “Notebook project” taking on a larger life. Prototype made, Rives BFK, four sheets, painted on separately, folded and sewn together, is sculptural, physical. Trying to connect with the canvas in the same way. Getting closer. Not easy. Skin dry, paint spots on it, neck tired, body tired. Still have to be mom. Babies waking up soon. Need to get energy. Had crazy week. Realized I am crazy. Need to take break, need to get head clear. Dentist said I have grinded my teeth down, bad. Need to start meditating again. I lied last week when I say I don’t have moments when I say I need to do this or that, I need to change. I do still say that, feel that. Or should I accept my grinding teeth? Paint every chance I get. Not take a break? Forget to re-order my checks. Forget everything but the most essential? I need to go now. Sit outside in the sunshine before the babies wake up from their naps.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 