The Crazy Things That Mother Artists Dream About

Motherhood is full of contradictions. At least for me. Right now.

I find myself constantly trying to find the time and the space to think. To take a breath and to think. About art- about my art and what I want to create. Sometimes I have the time, but not the space (think waiting for the whatever-is-in-the-oven to be done). Sometimes I have the space, but not the time (the house is empty, but for like 30 minutes). I feel like a total wanna be. It irritates me that I am.

On top of everything, I am also studying programming and trying to find a job in the field. I have been taking classes for the past yearish and feel confident that with a job sufficiently supported, I'll be able to patch together processes and fill in a position. Because I need it bad. First of all, I am in complete love with technology and have developed a passion for the machine that can only match my previous disenchantment with it. Second, I want to work in the real world and make real money so that I contribute to the family and am able to afford my own little studio in Long Island City(Queens) or Bushwick (Brooklyn). Why those neighborhoods and not Soho or Chelsea you might ask. Do I dare dream that high? 

In time, only in time. For now my office is the kitchen. Or my bed. Yesterday in between the tasks of cooking, I would fall down to the floor and alternate downward dogs with push-ups. Then I'd get up and do some tendus and attitudes. Michael peeked and raised his eyebrows with curiosity and amusement.

Today after a tedious day of researching how to upgrade my Mac's OS (the poor thing is kind of old), I finally shoved my little family out the door and declared that we are to explore Long Island City. We headed over there and as usual, Avka fell asleep in the car. Which works nicely, because we can then take the time to have one of our nice usual arguments that we always have without our daughter listening to us. Though sometimes I'm worried she somehow hears us even in her sleep. It probably bores her at this point. I never am able to allow myself to argue passionately in front of her because even one glimpse of her absolutely incredible warm sweet smile thaws away any sort of negativity.

We ended up in our favorite LIC coffee shop- Sweet Leaf. A latte and a pleasant conversation with a stranger from Guangdjou, China, put us in the right mood for exploration, so we headed to the brand new waterfront playground and Avka got to play and chase us around and yelp in delight with the magnificent background of the Empire State, the UN and the Chrysler Buildings all lighting up the midtown skyline behind is.

On our way back in the car, after running around in the freezing cold (25F), and with the latte well settled into my neurons, inspiration started to flow freely and I quickly open up my notebook and start writing:
"Make 10 portraits of mothers who share their stories of unglamorous mother moments- cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc... with each photograph accompanied by a short personal story that reflects on the burden and monotony of these chores. Everyone pays so much attention to the cute mommy blogs, to the pretty staged photos of kids eating ice cream while their giddy moms snap away. And that's fine. But what if with the same zealousness, I examine what lies underneath that? Why is housework so unglamorous? Why can't one be famous because they do their laundry? (mine is staring at me unfolded from my armchair right now).
The final product can be a book with the portraits and stories in addition to 10 collages made from the printouts with perhaps fabric or other physical presence attached to them."
I like this idea. I hope I can go beyond planning and get to work and get over the seemingly constant high barriers that stand between me and my work.
From this morning: Heavy snowfall in -6C. We head to the grocery store and on the way back we are lucky to find a parking spot. But Avka does not want to go home. She insists: "Go straight mamiiiii". So I do. We go straight. It's a strange feeling- not having a specific place in mind but listening to the instructions of a 2 and 1/2 year old. "Straight Mami", she continues navigating. We keep going straight, despite the many warnings that the street might soon be hard to get out of because of the quickly piling snow. The back windshield is now covered. We get to the end of the street- to the tiny State Nature Preserve beyond which is the Long Island Sound. We go out and take a walk. Our hands freeze. Avka's little face grimaces in the snow and wind. But she persists. She's a strong one, this one. She walks to the edge and looks out toward the water, where the snowfall looks so quiet and peaceful. Suddenly the phrase, "If God is willing and if I will", comes to my mind out of nowhere. I say it out loud. It makes sense. If God wills and if I will, surely, I can achieve anything I aim to.

Little outings/ big ideas.

The weather was finally a little nicer this past Sunday and I pushed and shoved my little brood until I got them out the door and on the way to the New Museum. I had my eye on visiting since I had noticed the sailboat attached to its slick exterior a few weeks ago when we went to the annual Bowery Babes holiday party. A sailboat attached to a building, hovering over the heads of pedestrians! Lovely.

We parked right smack in front of the museum (a luxury) for free. Now that does not happen often. If you are a driver in Manhattan you will soon come to realize that Sundays are the best. The feeling of getting a spot and rolling out like you own the block is the right start for any outing.

Almost the entire museum, which is a new tapering 6 floor glass and steel structure with high ceilings and an airy lobby that invites the street in, is currently dedicated to Chris Burden's "Extreme Measures". His giant sculpture installations easily take up all of the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th floors. 

Becoming familiar with Chris Burden's installations is like taking a walk in raw nature someplace new. It's beautiful, but there is always the possibility of danger. He hung a 1 ton cube off a boom carried by a restored Ford pick-up. He balanced an asteroid and a Porsche on a giant scale. He spun a huge wheel attached to a motorcycle's accelerator. He created a "beach" the size of our apartment upon the sands of which microworlds of military scenes play out in the viewer's imagination. For the "actors" and "decor" he used mostly children's toys (robots, soldiers, tanks, all sorts of weaponry, indians, etc) and miniature models of castles, train depots, tepees, houses, ships, towers, corals, plants and a lot more.

He hung a few hundred tiny submarines off the ceiling and provided us with a list of their names- a list that corresponds to a real list of submarines used in American military operations. He made a conical structure out of cement bags. And there is more.

My first reactions to his work was "Wow". The second was careful speechless examination. The third was "Noooooo". For you see, my little girl was feasting her eyes upon the extraordinary visual balancing acts in front of her, but unlike me, she could not stand still. She made quite a few determined fast and almost successful lunges toward the delicate artwork quickly and in panic intercepted by me. As much as I was mesmerized by my surroundings, my motor skills kicked in to the amused gaze (and in some cases annoyed) inspection of the museum guards.

Museum and toddlers! I can tell you something about that. Countless are the cases in which in complete desperation I have promised myself to never bring her again for I can literally feel my hair turn white as I try to navigate and "look" at precious artwork with my little girl in toe, a force that can hardly be contained. Yet I do it again. And I will do it again. It is worth every second because I expose my daughter to that what truly engages me. That what is truly special to New York City. To the reason why I moved here and stayed here. Her behavior, I argue, is a precious reaction to the world of artworks, and had the artist been standing there, I know that he would have seen the pure energy that is a response to the energy of the artwork.

I always feel recharged and inspired after I leave a grand museum exhibition and this time was no exception. The mere witnessing of these powerful pieces gave me so much hope. If others can, so can I.  I have to keep trying. I have to keep going with my own work, no matter what, despite the obstacles. 

Sailboat hull visible above.

Labor, labor, labor. New moon. (thoughts on the creative process)

I have been obsessing about the creative process lately. It is always like this with me – struggles and bursts of ideas lead to more struggles. I tell her "listen". "Listen ". But she does not. I spin in circles. We spin in circles. Good ideas come and go as if they were mere waves on the waterfront of my mind. I don't even notice them. The recipe remains a mystery, I must come up with it myself.

Caught up in this kind of circling, it is always a challenge to move because there are no tangible results. I dream of my own studio. But I know I will take her there. She will want to open everything. She will want to tear everything. She will want to spill everything. I will want to let her. Just like I want to let her do that here, and I do. But I should not. There is carpet. The carpet of our home. As the caretaker of this carpet, I am also the one to clean it.

As the day progresses, frustration and negativity bubble. Nothing is done. Finally we get dressed and go out in the freezing cold on the coldest day of the winter here at the edge of New York City. As we walk to the store and as I push the carriage through the slushy ice, its little wheels unable to take the friction of the frozen snow, I hear my daughter muttering something to me. "Louder, I can't hear you". She points up. I look toward the perfectly clear darkening sky, visibility increased by the frigidity of the air, to see the tiny sliver of a moon that must've just "risen" in the hour before sunset. It is the thinnest most delicate moon I have seen in a long, long time. Perhaps ever. Later I discover that the moon in fact was setting, trailing behind and shadowing the sun. What an elusive, tricky move, dearest moon. How subtly capable you are to tug at our deepest of emotions. 

Gazing at the wispy crescent, I stop to snap a picture as bewildered drivers pass by and wonder who is that mother who would take her 2 and 1/2 year old out at 10F and walk. But it all starts to make sense to me. Creativity will come. The project will come. The beauty of the moment softens the creases around my eyes. I let go. Productivity is present after all. The birth of the piece will happen. It'll come tiny and barely detectable in the grand scheme of things, announced by my daughter.