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.
Tag: motherhood
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Could it have been that my sacred space was disrupted, that creating the baby zone temporarily restricted my freedom and sanctuary I’ve always felt when coming to work? (can I still call it work if I don’t get paid?) That the space I gave up was the same space I preferred working in, laying all my pieces out on the floor, painting and gluing, making a mess, not caring what state I left my studio in because it was mine and mine alone. Now there is possibility of Jack, Fiona, Alan, the babysitter, coming in here, anytime. I can’t leave supplies in reach. I have to pick up and keep track of push pins. I can’t leave containers of indigo blue watercolor out. At a time when I feel like my artwork is as meaningless as the presidential election this year, I can only assume I am going through a period of great change, of give and take, of worth and self-esteem, periods of nothingness, sadness, loneliness, paired with great happiness and love, family, warmth, and safety. Food and shelter, tomato plants and an herb garden, the sun and the birds, the regularity, home.
I must conquer these demons, take out this brush, this paint, the voice inside me, not worried if the things I do have value, not fret about the cost of supplies and babysitters because what is the alternative? To sit mute in a chair in the corner? I will learn how to share my most personal, deepest, darkest, self, open to interpretation. I have to risk everything to speak and live and parent and be a part of this society, of my community. I need to let them, see me, and I need to really see them. Something deep and meaningful. No holds bar.
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Old blue paint. Mixed in the past. “oh cool, I can use this” to get me started. To be a gateway to the days’ work. To start off my time in my studio I have today. Time I’ve been short of for a while now. I have a sitter today. I worked in the morning on projects organizing crap on shelves and nooks. Deals purchased on Amazon we don’t need. Extra packages of boogie wipes, butt creams, potty watches, instruction manuals, an infra-red camera, nuts, screws, coins, things I try to put out of reach. “I’ll deal with it later” I keep saying, until the box of things gets moved to another location, somewhere hidden. “I’ll do this project later” I say. Until there’s boxes of miscellaneous things in every closet, up high. Forgotten, replaced with a purchase of the same exact things because we’ve forgotten we already have them.
I came in my studio today, finished organizing my art supplies, I have allocated 1/3rd of my studio to my babies. “I’m such a nice mom” I said to myself. To give up part of my studio, my only me space left, even though it’s not taken seriously. “Just a hobby” That’s what some people say. “You have been so happy without a nanny. The babies make you so happy.” He says. “Yeah, I love it but without help I won’t have any studio time, time to paint.” I say. “But you could give up art and still be happy”
I sit here today reeling with feelings of sadness and confusion. What do I want to paint? What for? Well especially now, took the Room show down yesterday and didn’t sell a thing. How do I prove my value and worth when some view everything in monetary terms? Art feeds the soul. It’s who I am. There’s no reasoning with it. There’s no understanding any of it. The only thing to do is to do and let the chips fall as they may. I think I’m doing my best. But I don’t know. I used to come into my studio so excited and so optimistic, I had goals and ideas. I guess I might again tomorrow. I feel like just planting a ton of tomato plants everywhere.
I’m gonna work now. I can’t let other people define me. Even though they do. Such gossipers.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 