What thought do I start with. The small flying orange creature that just flew into my house, my notebooks laying out downstairs, almost bare. One piece of black handmade paper collage is glued on each page. I want to go down and work on them now. Jack and Fiona are not taking a nap. They are watching Toy Story. I can feel the naptimes are almost over. A little boy showed me his Dark Vader ice pack from his lunch box today as I pack up Jack’s left over lunch stuff. The teacher wants each kid to pick up their own lunch stuff. I’m the mom who comes in and picks up after her son. But I want to get to know his classmates, who he’s hanging out with. Jack spills a bucket of old daisies on the floor, they are dried out. A few sprinkled down on top of one of the girls sleeping mats. I pick up the flowers, leaving dust on the carpet, too difficult to pick up. A little girl asks me about the flowers. I say Jack picked them and brought them to school last week. He wanted to pass them out to the other kids. The girl and I talk about sewing the flowers together, making headbands. I tell the teacher she could use them to make prints. Two little ones are dosing off to sleep next to a teacher. They have their toy stuffies over their faces. I could tell a lot of them weren’t going to actually fall asleep. I put Jack and Fiona in their beds when we get home. I come upstairs. Hear them. Check on them. Soap all over the mirrors. They are not going to take a nap. I give them a bath. We read toy story and I decide to just play the movie for them so I get a break. The end of naptime. The end of naptime paintings and writings. It will now become something else. Some other piece of time carved out of motherhood. I will find it. Time will adjust. Now I have to go to my studio for a VERY SHORT TIME and make marks in my notebook.
Category: Nap time paintings
-
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 