Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes

Confiscation

September 17th, 2018
Yesterday, in our “Being Human” residency we delved into the subject of “Confiscation”. I brought my butterfly yard decoration that I was afraid would poke out Jack and Fiona’s eyes and attempted to recreate one that was safe. I wrapped string and used felt. We didn’t finish them yet. I have a new idea I want to do, make a giant stuffed butterfly yard decoration! We also talked about our own experiences as children- Could we remember an item being confiscated from us when we were children?

Last night when I laid my head on my pillow I started reeling in thoughts. Half were thoughts on all the ways I could make my butterfly safe, but the other thoughts were about my childhood. I tried to remember a time something was taken away from me, all I could recall was my home being confiscated from me in one form or another. All I could, all I can remember is me being in trouble all the time, being told to “go outside” or when I was older, “Go to your room”. My mom confiscated the house from me, my dad confiscated himself from me. He moved out when I was six years old and rarely showed up on his scheduled weekends. My mom confiscated herself from me, sending me outside or to my room, and she would stay in her room often with the door shut. I can’t remember any specific toys that were precious my mom took away to punish me. I can’t even remember any situations with my mom when I was little, except the times I got hurt and had to go to the hospital. My mom was always there for me in those situations, she would still be mad at me for not wearing shoes and stepping on a rusty nail or getting my ankle caught in a gate while riding my pony into her corral. Or falling backwards at the skating rink and braking my arm. She was annoyed at these times, I remember that clearly.

Last night, while I laid in bed and my neck and shoulders stiffened, with these thoughts running through my head I kept trying to remember something positive, something happy when I was a little girl. All I can remember are the times my mom was mad at me or the times I wanted her attention, but she could not give it to me. I remember her singing songs and rubbing my back at night, so I would fall asleep. But that’s a small memory in a sea of troubled memories. It is unsettling, and last night I started to get scared. I thought about how my whole life I’m constantly concerned I’m going to get in trouble. Everything I do, every moment I live I am questioning the validity of what I’m doing, if it’s O.K., if it’s bad or good.

I didn’t live a safe life as a child, my mom never thought to wrap anything in batting and felt, to alter the dangerous things and make them safe. I’m not upset with her and I don’t blame her, she was a product of her unhappy childhood. My mom did the best she could with what she had at the time. I know this, and I know she loved me very much. I wish I could remember some happy memories when I was young.

I’ve done so much to keep my kids safe, I’ve confiscated so many things from them, I’m sure they won’t remember them all!
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I am just a blip, there is no reason for me not to make art.

September 12th, 2018
Today is a funny day- the weather is strange, I can’t tell if the sky is filled with clouds or smoke, there’s another looming Hurricane that will make landfall on the Southern U.S., a million people being told to evacuate, it feels like a nothing day- like a waiting day. At the pharmacy this morning, while I waited inline to pick up my prescriptions of Naproxen and Ativan, a man in front of me shook with anger.

“I’ve been waiting an hour” He said.

“We only opened 45 minutes ago” Said the pharmacist.

“You’re incompetent” He said softly under his breath, but loudly enough so everyone could hear.

The pharmacist told me what happened as the man complained at the next window down, to the pharmacist whose job it was to explain to the man how to use the medicine. He complained about this too,

“It’s not my medicine, I’m not the one taking it, I’ve told you that.” He said.

I felt uncomfortable and scared, I imagined this man driving a car and having road rage.

I came home and worked in my studio, in my notebooks and on mixed media silk, stitch, pages from an old book, I ripped out the verses from the chapter, “Virtue in Work”.

I am pleased with myself for taking the time to be in a creative mindset each morning, or anytime, even if it’s only one and a half hours. Even if I must put off studying my sign language when I should be doing that. I need to do my art. Even when, since my first day of my Residency, where we are all parents exploring what it means to be an artist and a parent I’ve questioned the value of art and the value of my art.

I’ve questioned the value of being a parent and my value as a parent as well. Today, after I spent my twenty minutes in my studio I walked by a drawing on the floor that my daughters best friend drew and gave to my daughter. The value of art is right there on my floor, it’s inherent in humans, just like taking care of our children. Wanting to have children, when is there really a great reason to become a parent? Is there a great reason to want to create? The two are almost interlinked.

I would love to say that I will never question the need for art or children again, but I know I will not.

It’s a funny, chilly, Smokey, nothing, waiting day.

Yesterday I found a vertebra on a little beach, under the Golden Gate Bridge, near old bunkers and missile launch sites. The guns are gone but the skeletons of that time remain, rusty or painted with thick, military grade greyish white paint. History of an animal I do not know, and a time I wasn’t present for. Someone had a child, this vertebra was once part of a baby, these bunkers alive and able to kill babies.

I am just a blip, there is no reason for me not to make art.
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Confiscation of Time

September 11th, 2018
Outside, what a good idea. Going outside to sit and play, let the day pass by, watch the sun set behind the trees, slowly fall below the hill. Sit under the trees, take advantage of the last days of summer. Watch the kids play, examine the fig tree. I turn on the water for Jack and Fiona to play with, Jack soaks himself, Fiona makes “tomato stew” with the red and orange Lantana flowers. Everything quiet but my children’s voices, the water, every few minutes my monotone loudly spoken speech, giving a re-direction or a “we don’t do that”. Then I fade back into the moment of relaxation and the children fade back into play. The hum of the freeway and cars driving through our cul-de-sac remind me that todays coming to an end and tomorrows to-do’s will come fast. I hang on tight to this moment as buzzing humming birds pass close to me. I forget about making dinner and doing laundry and all the decisions that need to be made.

Wind starts to pick up, shadows darken on my notebook. I could trace a silhouette of the apple tree leaves on my paper. Jack reminds me of a confiscated item, a butterfly on a stick meant as a yard decoration. Jack and Fiona were just one year old when we got those, one was a grass hopper, I don’t know where that one is. But the butterfly is on the ground outside the garden, that we turned into a sand box. We bought the decorations at orchard and put them in the yard together, Jacks was the grass hopper, Fiona’s the butterfly. The kids loved them, but soon they became an item that terrified me. No matter where I put those decorations in the yard Jack and Fiona would find them and take them out of the ground and carry them around. All I could think of was them poking their eyes out. I finally threw the butterfly on the side of the garden where it can’t be reached. It’s been there for almost three years.

The fig tree has grown so large in that time. Today, we grab some fresh ripe figs off the tree, they are delicious. Jack wants to climb the tree to get some figs off the high branches, I tell him to be careful, to only climb the sturdy, large branches. He still goes too high and needs help getting down. I think of him falling and am scared of this but try to trust that he’s been climbing this fig tree since he was just able to walk, and they have grown together, Jacks legs and arms getting stronger and longer, the tree growing taller, they have a relationship, a bond.

Soon the fig tree will be full of ripe figs, if we don’t eat them fast the blue jays will eat them for us. Then the leaves will turn colors as fall approaches. I wish I could confiscate time, put it in a bottle, make it pause. Time is going by so fast, I am glad I remembered to go outside and sit and play and reminisce.
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Confiscation

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I am just a blip, there is no reason for me not to make art.

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Confiscation of Time

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