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?

Tramplers beware

Blogs are nothing new; I realise that. I even have a young poet in my book pretending not to know what a blog is, so convinced is he of their omnipresent triteness. But, let's be honest, life's blood can run through them just about forever. It's not like the factory lights get killed and the printers all go home. Words still spin from the ethereal presses, continents still chatter, 24-10, as somebody said. A friend across the ocean for example responded today by wanting to mention this articulated search for a show for my wife to a gallerist. Even though far-fetched, could, I wondered, through some kind of keyed-in fate, a show after time be offered? Is this what you call a garden? Are seeds at this moment - as I write, as you read - being planted? Or just by saying it am I doing the planting? Or, as sometimes I fear, are we all as a people just tramplers, the world's best tramplers, as we flatten our way through a field of bulbs and continue our march to nowhere? My eyes flash right now from the intregrity of the artist's work to the mangled debris in Iraq and the two somehow understand each other. One may be peaceful, the other in deepest despair, but humanity and devotion in great art will never do injustice to suffering. And this, I believe, is one of this particular artist's great strengths. It is not politics. It is not religion. It is not bristling muscle. It is simply one person's response to that unexplained world within, that undiscovered realm, whose very lack of dogma says it all.