Number Eleven

I rise from the table and walk to the bookshelf to the left of the fireplace, as the children fall asleep in the other room. I have to look hard for it at first but there on the third shelf, between a friend's dizzyingly analytical book on the law and structure of the international banking system, and a propagandist book on Croatia I picked up there during the war, is the illustrated literary journal received several years ago from across the ocean. On the cover of this particular copy an F/A-18 Hornet appears through a burst of cloud caused by the plane's breaking of the sound barrier. Inside, however, on the very first page, before the contributors' notes, is part of what I am looking for. It is one of several pieces done by the artist, in this first instance the clenched fist of our daughter, then a baby of about three months old. It was part of a large collection of single images done by the artist shortly after giving birth for the very first time. The original is flesh-coloured and life-like; this is in black and white. It is thumb-sized on the page, with a large white background. The original drawing of the fist was about one square foot. The children are now asleep and the artist returns to the living room. It has been a long day and both children were in school performances. I pick up the journal again and flick through the pages in search of another image. There they are. They are part of a series in the journal given the title of our daughter's name. The first image is of her unoccupied white sleep-suit. The second, again with its own page, is the smallest of several Russian dolls, given as it happens to our daughter by the man responsible for curating the various art projects in the journal. The third image is that fist again. The fourth image is a small toy with a neck like a giraffe. The final image is of the artist's nipple. I am sure I have mentioned this image before. A bead of her milk is to the left. I close the book again and remember the pleasure in seeing the artist doing these images for the first time. They said to me, I know I am a mother but I am still an artist.