I walk up the damp, green moss, quiet, trail. Morning, dog by my side. I look at her and am glad today is walk day. My mind is calm at this moment. I see a black widow crawl away, I call her Ruby: mysterious, elegant legs, a large, sturdy frame, and a serious face. She makes her escape, down a hand spun creation, not present one second ago. I am in awe. My heart beats a little quicker as I head up the path, walking by menacing, bare poison oak vines that have been transformed into a palette of thick and thin lines, damp air between, sun shining through the cold, foggy, misty, November dawn. I feel like I am walking through another world, in my peripheral vision I see a meticulous web, so perfect I question ever making another thing when something already exists that surpasses all beauty and innovation that the world has ever or will ever display anywhere ever again. The otherworldness, the quiet places it takes my mind. I see one after another, just as special, just as intimidating. The quiet ground, damp with decay and new life. The Bay trees with their bright green trunks. Just me and Billy the whole walk. Like the perfect paint splatters on my studio wall. Or the painting Jack made last night that I want to frame and save forever. (Which really is not that long) Deep breath. I’ve been practicing my deep breaths. It’s been essential to keep myself from crossing my psychological health boundary; the one that keeps me here and not living with the spiders. From not imaging the creepy little walk they do down my neck, or having them enter my mind as I’m sound asleep, unable to defend myself. I take deep breaths.
Tag: art
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How long has this blank piece of paper been sitting here? Waiting for me to return? Wondering what I was doing to fill all the hours I’ve been away. Was I cleaning? Cooking? Tending to the garden? Hiking, walking, taking trips to the beach. Participating in the installation of our GAP DADA Quilt.
Which was incredible in every possible way. And even so I worried about the time and money, the expense of childcare, gas, bridge, and me not making any money, only costing. Taking time for myself. Remember last week or so when I was questioning the whole money thing, how I don’t make money and my painting, writing, and art activities only cost money and I feel guilty doing them now when before I would feel like I should just do it, that one day I could make money doing what I love and that day would come, it was an investment. But now as the days and years tick by, my savings has dwindled from art school, buying art supplies, workshops and framing, I am having issues with it. What should I do? Yesterday there was nothing I would have rather been doing than being at the installation of the DADA Quilt. Nothing. And it inspired me and the quilt will inspire hundreds, and the DADA festival is important and valuable. There are SO many things in this world worth doing without getting paid for them. So many important things. So how do we survive? How do I feel proud of who I am and know I am and justify my art time, being an artist, participating? So many things have happened that I’ve wanted to write about, my magical beach trip with Jack and Fiona, our trip to the farmer’s market, the little bunny and how Jack was scared all day, his little pouty bottom lip. Fiona’s love of nature and animals, but I’m in turmoil I guess. Dealing with dumb philosophical issues. All or nothing. Passion.
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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.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 