Monday, April 21, 2008
Prove me wrong, please!
I don’t think there’s any way a woman can be both an artist and a mother.
To be an artist you need to be able to de-schedule, to stay up late, to extend hours, to break rules. You need to get into your own mind-space without interruption. You need to be able to go out on a limb.
To be a mother is the opposite. Your life is thoroughly routinized. Interruptions are a way of life. You need to absorb, echo, hold the life of a dependent little thing. You need to be the kid’s boundaries.
In art, you need to break down boundaries.
When you’re a mother, being an artist feels selfish.
When you’re an artist, being a mother is suicide.
When I was a kid, we had to tiptoe around my friend’s SoHo loft, because her father’s huge studio was behind the living room door. He came out for dinner. Her mother came home from her job as a corporate lawyer around then. There was a young au pair from Europe.
Prove me wrong. I know about Elizabeth Murray and Sally Mann, and, and, and, so bringing them up isn’t good enough.