The Baby in Us All

It's the last day of school today for both my kids. A few years ago I would have been meeting them at pick up time, maybe taking them swimming at Barton Springs or to some other reward venue to celebrate another year complete, many lessons learned and growing pains survived. But this year, because they both ride the bus (city bus and school bus) and they both often have plans after school--to which I am not invited--I am here, musing on motherhood and its inevitable transitions.

This subject must have been playing in my mind for days because last night, this is what I dreamed:

I was on somebody else's front porch. I spied, through a floor to ceiling window next to the front door, a baby running towards me, arms raised, tippy-toed, smiling. I said with joy, "It's Baby Felix!" I ran to open the door and embrace him. Sweet little baby of mine. But almost immediately, as I felt his soft skin touch mine, I asked "What have you done with Big Felix?" And then that baby threw up on me as babies often do. I then had to clean up this mess, in someone else's house. The first sink I went to, to get a wet rag and rinse my hands, had freshly washed and draining grapes in it. The second sink I found had clothing soaking in it....

That's as much as I can remember.

The best part is that this dream reminded me that inside my big kids there will always exist their baby selves. And it is just as true that their soon to be adult selves were always there, inside their baby selves, waiting to be known. I suppose the throwing up must be there (besides for comic relief) to remind me that I can't fix everything and that raising babies is sometimes hard work and not always sweet. I can't have my babies back and don't really long to. But it was nice to remember and visit him ever so briefly.

And, I do so love the adventure of my big ones, very soon to be adults.

Recovery

Ready for the Art Tour

 Sometimes stimulus is overwhelming. This past weekend I spent 3 days with my studio doors open, participating in WEST, an Austin, west of I-35 studio tour. The weather was truly a gift, usually by this time in May we have shut our doors and windows and cranked up the a/c--at least during the afternoon hours. But it was cool and breezy enough to keep everything open. The garden looked blissfully blessed by the unusually ample rain we've had, so much still in bloom, so much still spring green. And the people who came through the doors were just as sweet as the day was delightful--many friends--old and new.

And I am still in a sort of happy/sad daze. It was lovely. I am exhausted physically, but mostly emotionally. I had a lot of expectations I think.

 My recovery started this morning, as it usually does, with my family. My kids (teenagers) are in their last 6 days of school for this school year so I think they are in a similar exhausted and over stimulated state of mind as well. But breakfast with all four of us was silly and fun as usual and as my husband, Brian, directed our focus onto two over-sized strawberries, he said, "this is what you need to know today" as he held up two apple sized specimens. As if to say, anything is possible and nothing isn't a little bit ridiculous.

 And shortly later, while driving my daughter to school, one and one half hours before the tardy bell would ring (because she has so much homework to do, and probably a little socializing to complete as well) two things made my life even happier. One: When I got into the van and started it up there was a CD in the player, left there by Brian the night before: Scott Marcus' Rock Star. I hadn't heard it in a while. Scott is an old friend of ours and former band-mate of Brian's. The whole record is deeply personal yet completely chock-full of humor and love for the art form. Ramona and I let the music play. Loud. I usually put NPR news on, but today, with our hazy morning brains, coffee's drug not yet buzzing through our veins, Rock Star was IT. We rode without saying a word. I don't know what thoughts Ramona was entertaining but I was marveling a what a talent Scott is, what a wonderful record he and Brian made together, and at the most probable fact that they'll never make any money from it. But during that short drive I was having my faith in art restored, again.

Rock Star by Scott Marcus, OK I did the cover art, here's a teaser, a snippet of one of Scott's songs

The other thing that happened was this:

After I dropped Ramona off at school I was driving home, coffee starting to click in, taking my usual route back. The sunlight was sharply angled into my eyes, as it usually is, early in the morning, but as I crested a small hill at a four way stop intersection I saw steam already rising from the pavement, a sign that today would be hotter than yesterday and that summer was, in fact, on the horizon, and I experienced a rush of bliss looking at the school crossing guard in her usual place, the beer delivery guy rolling a dolly full of beer from his truck to the convenience store, the pedestrians crossing, the library looking stoic on my left and a bicycle breezing by.

Memory: Who am I?

1989, Portrait by my great old friend Bill Rainey

2012, portrait by my dear new friend Leon Alesi

This is who I am, sometimes.

 Lately I have been thinking about memory. I want to remember stories from my life and tell them well. Autobiography is a conceit achieved in many ways.

 The paintings I usually paint are essentially self portraits with implied narratives. They are all about my own identity--what I see and how I see it, and then, how I share my mind's eye. I have painted self portraits in the traditional sense--which actually do resemble me somewhat, and it is a difficult task for many reasons. It is so hard to face oneself, so hard to sit still and stare, so uncomfortable to examine that face you think you already know. But I force myself to complete one every couple of years. Self portraits are about the only obligatory art project which I expect each of my students to attempt. They are infinitely revealing. 

 When I was in art school (in the early eighties) I painted the figure in narrative settings (which, unfortunately for me, was not at all in vogue). Now I paint botanically inspired images which I sometimes place in a setting but the action of which is only implied.  My paintings are about humanity mostly, but they also reveal a lot about who I am. My paintings describe me.

 So now that I am older, I feel more comfortable sharing who I am, and who I was. Maybe it is time to turn back to more blatant narrative in my paintings(it still is not exactly in vogue). I'll have to start with a good story and so I am collecting memories from which to begin.

Self Portrait with Leaves, 2002

Self portrait in Blue, 2008

work in progress

Soon to be complete...