The Artist as Mother

The artist as mother in this instance is the biological and artistic parent of two offspring. The artist gestated her children as normal, which as we know is called first an embryo, and then a foetus, but unlike many mothers, she also made tangential works of art about it. Each successful gestation occurred as expected in the artist's uterus, from conception until the foetus was thankfully sufficiently developed to be born. Nothing unusual there. We were lucky. And I have always considered this person to be a conceptual artist anyway. She went into labour and gave birth twice. Not unusual. I saw both, though just in the nick of time in the case of the latter. (I have been to all her recent openings.) Once the children were born, the artist produced milk - in a process we know as lactation - to feed both children. But when they were born, she also produced art - in a process called magical realism - to feed the mind. Historically, mothers have always fulfilled the primary role in the raising of children, but since the late 20th century, the role of the father in child care has been given greater prominence, certainly in most Western countries, though perhaps less so in cultures to be found in the war zone. No, the artist is special for many reasons, but perhaps especially because she has managed to combine both a fulfillment of the primary role and a fulfillment of the creative one. Currently, with advances in reproducing technologies, the function of a figurative artist can be split between single pieces and mass production of, say, prints, digital images, films, etc. Artists get very excited about all this digital doo-dah. Currently, however, with advances in reproductive technologies, biological motherhood can be split between the genetic mother (who provides the ovum) and the gestational mother (who carries the pregnancy), and in theory neither might be the social mother (the one who brings up the child). This is perhaps the more remarkable. This can perhaps put art in its place. (GM art one day?) No, the mother plays an important role in a child's childhood, and the artist plays an important role in a culture's art. Combined, you are missing only one thing. The artist's husband. Whoever thought of that?

Mission Statement

If you are reading this blog - a feat I cannot of course take for granted - and wondering what on earth it is all about, I suppose the best way to describe it would be to say it is a kind of diaristic homage, a series of sometimes practical dedications, and these to the artist, who happens also to be my wife. I should also state that I never quite expected this whole thing to come so thick and fast, and quite so regularly. (I haven't missed a day since it started.) Nor is it, by any stretch of the imagination, the only thing going on in our lives. In fact, I omit many things which I consider to be either too thorny or indeed sensitive to cover in such a public display of what is essentially affection and respect. What I will say in the blog's favour, however, is that it provides a welcome opportunity for me to drift in and out of various inter-related topics, rather like a tide still trying to find itself, and in-so-doing I get to regularly wash the beach of any distracting flotsam or jetsam. Another thing: it not only charts the very practical progress of an artist working towards, and trying to get, an exhibition, it also gives spine to the idea that it is a good thing for a man to enjoy the creative independence of the woman he is living with. I suppose, in other words, it is essentially feminist, not at all submissive, and, interestingly enough, not that possessive. What else do I choose not to cover in this blog? Well, the artist's husband, like the blogger's wife, remains anonymous. For one reason or another I have not always been so focused on the artist, though I have always been her fan. I don't like to be too literal about the work, enjoying instead the rumour of its greatness. (Ultimately it will be up to you to decide: perhaps the work will not be revealed until such a time as an exhibition is found, dates confirmed, and work perhaps already hung.) I do not find it appropriate to cover our sex life, musical though it is when expressed. I don't see any merit in recording petty squabbles: these may be a common denominator between reader and writer but, come on, who wants it? I don't like to go into any real kind of detail about the artist's relationship with her own family, good though these relationships are. (As for my own: am I saving up on them?) And I never like to be too literal about people or places, by which I mean that where we live for example I always refer to as the capital. Where for instance I spent much of my childhood, I often call the chilly north. The various embattled places on the globe I know fairly well, and to which I may be returning, I call only the war zone. Where our children's maternal grandparents live, I term with affection the foothills. A vast country I knew, loved, and lived in for five years, I describe only as being across the ocean. And the city where I mostly lived there, I will tend to describe as the city of scraped skies. As for where my paternal grandfather came from, I call it the flatland across the sea. And so forth. Anyway, welcome aboard if you have just joined us. Keep coming back. The artist worked on the new piece on the wall today - green, peaty, root-like, profoundly reassuring - and it shows all the signs of greatness. It would be a shame if you missed it.

Semiotics On A Semi-Open Day For The Semi-Closed Artists

The artist and her children arrived after a long and circuitous journey under a bright warm sun and deep blue sky. As they stepped into the revamped complex of what I later discovered to be the former site of a famous old king’s abattoir, I hung back and remembered visiting the artist when she worked in studios like this and they had their annual open studios. As my eyes finished adjusting to the change of light, the children picked up maps from the front desk of the different studios in the building and proceeded deeper into the cavernous structure like two young and happy art collectors, the youngest momentarily fanning himself with the sheet of paper bearing the different studios and artist’s names, while the eldest took it all in her 8-year-old stride. Artist’s names were pinned by some doors like tiny statements, while through the gaps of some of the other entrances you could see the occasional artist wince at the prospect of yet more people, perfect strangers, entering their most private of chambers. (Art is like an affliction to some and does not mask self-doubt.) Anyway, we stepped with continued care through the creative minefield. The atmosphere was one of expectancy and despair. I don't know, I may have been over-reacting, but I definitely felt uncomfortable, as if I shouldn’t really be there, as if the artists were only showing their work because they had been told that that is what artists do, or because it was all part of the deal of having a studio in the first place and that for at least two days every year they had to open them up to the public. The first studio we entered housed a female sculptor. I explained this dilemma of feared intrusion to her and she assured me that the artists in the building were only too happy to receive visitors or guests. She was sitting next to a shy male artist who had woken up at four in the morning and said he was tired as a consequence. (So at least it wasn’t me he was yawning at when I asked about the rats in the studios.) The second space housed a lone artist who sat like a wired crooner on a tall wooden stool by the open door as we entered. As we moved further into his space, which fanned out like a trampled wedding dress, he looked only mildly pleased to have us, and I felt as a result ‘mildly’ imprisoned. His work was large, yellowish, not even hungrily abstract, with a hint – without the strength - of the late surrealism of Matta. We moved on, up some stairs, and the sun shone through the windows, pinpointing the arrows to the next floor. (The children were carrying books and their feet slapped the stone stairs.) The next studio was friendly and another discussion began about the merit of such occasions. What was it with me?

The Homecoming

I awake early. The radio is on. Ever-rolling news. (The chaos of the events unmatched by the neat re-telling.) I roll over, to the east. The artist is not there. Of course. She is in the foothills, though travelling back today, with the little people. I lie on my back and catch up on the news. The stories seem familiar. Some are. I heard them in my sleep. Indeed, in the course of the previous six hours I have probably been around the world five times. I examine the artist’s work on the wall. It will be the first thing she looks at when she arrives. (Mark my words.) Furthermore she will say it needs more work. I shower and shave. I run an errand, and speak on the phone to one of the children, then the artist, who is preparing to leave the foothills. I head into the heart of the capital aware of their imminent journey. Everything in the capital feels relaxed, though I am there to meet a man back briefly from a war-zone. He saunters in to where we are meeting. He bears a relaxed but worldly demeanour. I have seen him each time but one when he has been back. I remember when he first told me he was going out. It is interesting to register the changes, and good to note, in his case, a continued strength and respect for others. Also, you know you are in good company when the brave man plays down the risk, belittles the danger, and talks with humour. We discuss my own possible role in this field - we have had this conversation before - and I am satisfied. I bid goodbye. The sun is on our faces. And I wish him well. He flies back tomorrow. In the morning. My second appointment is with another war-zoner but this one I discover has postponed the meeting for two days. I decide instead, perhaps indulgently, to prepare for the artist and the little people’s arrival by going home and cleaning the flat – we were working hard before the foothills and left it very dirty. Why, I shock myself by buying a mop on the way. Who am I trying to impress? If it is the artist, you would shake your head at some of things I have done in the past in order - you would think – to do the opposite. The first thing I do in the flat is to open all the windows and doors. With basements, the airing of the space is essential. Anyway, when they arrive a few hours later their spirits are high and their appreciation apparent. The artist then looks at her work: ‘It needs more work,’ she says.