Recently, I have had a moment, well several weeks, to reflect and the question which came to front was "Why put one more painting into the world." As my sister noted, "You paint dead people." and strange as it sounds I had never thought of these women as that, but something much more personal. I have watched the arc of my work go from bringing my simple color and line approach to painting flowers to a reaching for my voice and a purposeful intention of what I put into the world.
My first painting was created from a utilitarian need to decorate our very tiny rental house that my son and I had just moved into. I was a full time teacher and newly single mom. What followed, was a long series the brightest florals marked by opaque color and heavy black line. They felt in direct competition with a dark and a most challenging part of my life. Looking back, it was exactly what the moment called for. I just painted, but felt no real purpose, apart from helping me pay the rent.
I got up at 4:30 am during the week, went to the basement and painted until it was time to get my son and myself ready for school. My first exhibition was at the back of my classroom and I did the hard part of just cold call asking if I could show my work at alternative venues. I found a warm reception at places like C'est La Vie and Scott's in Edmonds. I found out useful things like work sold regularly if hung in a bar compared to the restaurant and too much of my earnings went to some really cute coats at C'est La Vie. I inadvertently tied my art to transaction and left my voice aside. I happily painted flowers and more flowers.
That all changed as a few years passed and life unfolded as it does. I found myself in the confusing juxtaposition of raising children while caring for my terminally ill mom, suddenly and uncomfortably facing generational transition, witnessing the theoretical ground itself in reality. Life was changing and my Art with it.
One afternoon my mother set a stack of black albums, frayed along the edges and filled with black and white photos, all posted with the tiny black corners with names and dates written in white on the black pages. These were her albums, full of her friends from long ago. This was not the family album but somehow felt more personal. All afternoon she went through each photograph, name, specific date and story. I admit that when she gifted me those albums I listened somewhat impatiently and did not understand how important they would become and how much they would influence my work.
During her illness. I spent six months living with her in her assisted living apartment, stepping into her life for a time. Sleeping on the floor, eating dinner every night with her friends in the dining room, participating in the knitting club, entering conversations rooted in the past as if it was the present, witnessing first hand the funny and poignant community of those who know the last chapter is being written. There It was a time with no regrets, I appreciated the ever fleeting moments and for her presence and was so grateful I could be there for her last moments.
After she passed and I returned home I made a place for the albums in my studio. Many times since that day, I have looked through them through the lens of loss, knowing I could never ask questions again, noticing the revenant stories hidden beneath the surface. The clues were in a look, a gesture, their posture, or a hint of feelings towards others in the frame.
I started to paint the women in these albums and I haven't stopped yet. I moved beyond the known and visited the local flea markets and thrift shops when I visited my hometown in Ohio looking for discarded black and white photographs. In these women I see a strength and resilience that I know my mother possessed. Since her passing I have realized that this particular generation of women had secrets to keep and heartaches to hide and triumphs that no one celebrated.
They had their own time, just as we do now, but we also have much that we share as women. A new perspective comes when our own children are grown and we have the space and breath to look at those who came before and to look at our mothers with new eyes. These paintings reflect a moment reclaimed, an acknowledgment of those who were overlooked,, a final animation in recognition of their legacy.
