The Art of Birthing

Saturday I visited a friend who recently had a baby. He had only been this side of the womb for five weeks and as I held the weight of him, cradled in the crook of my arm I experienced the temporal shift of knowing when I was that age, I too received that love and care from my parents, my family. Over the hours we spent with the new parents and this new child the babe expressed his needs and contentments and I marveled at his new baby skin which echoed his freshness in the world; not yet marred by the elements, human made or otherwise. He was free of stress, full of ease and trust. I shared with the crowd at his house, I wish I could be held like that. Vaimo said maybe we could make a train where I held the baby and someone held me. That sounded nice, though I knew that it wouldn’t be the same. The baby had no ruminating thoughts dragging him down, no worries about feeling his heart beating too fast or not fast enough in his chest, no things or tasks or aspirations pulling him beyond the present moment of just being.

Each of our hands were once approximately the size of his. Precious, tiny little things that reach and grasp for nothing and everything all at the same time. As he held onto my thumb while he slept I noticed his nails were the size of the negative space in my counted cross-stitch Aida cloth. As someone currently childfree by choice I felt the draw of having a little one. How their presence requires one to exist beyond the primacy of the cog-in-the-machine lifestyles we lead. I sensed how everything must be realigned to attend to his survival, his needs. Meaning, if you’re lucky, it’s a little less important to catalogue your to-do list items left hanging after your last work session, because your brain simply cannot be bothered with those mundanities when faced with a crying or cooing babe. In the blissful few hours we spent with the baby, nothing else mattered. Time was irrelevant, marked only by the theme song of The Office reruns playing quietly in the living room noting the ending of one episode and the beginning of another.

And yet, while time seemed to slow down with him in my arms, I could also feel my heart stretch toward the unknown future ahead for this little one, and the rest of us plugging away in this thing called life. Clearly, that feeling is magnified when faced with the responsibility of holding an infant’s head up. I also feel these jolts of love and care when I see my friends’ babes on the socials. Though clearly the experience of physically holding a child magnifies this feeling beyond the thrill of a static image. My niece always reminds me of this feeling of love, care, and wonder when she is so not concerned with this adult created personal space bubble as she uses her small hand to get attention with a gentle tug on the sleeve or hand or, when she cuddles into the space left in the chair meant for one to gain an audience for her iPad game playing. These moments with children in my life remind me of my deep care that lives within me, a desire to protect them from harms. They also remind me of the ways that care then also reverberates out to other children born into circumstances that might not have allowed for such comforts to be granted by parents, caretakers, environments realigned to small ones’ needs. There was so much to marvel at with this little one, and I had the gift of time to give him all I had in the moment. Not everyone is so lucky on either side of that equation.

I don’t really want to veer into policy or cultural reforms necessary to create a more just and equitable world for our little people and their caretakers, and yet I still will because I think it’s important to recognize that the individualistic model of one or two people raising a kid with occasional social supports has clearly not been sustainable (ever) and has been even more visibly exacerbated by the realities of our ongoing current pandemic. The lack of political will to have substantial paid leave for parents regardless of one’s employment status is a constant reminder of where our priorities lie as a nation. It makes me want to scream and shout, we’re traumatizing kids everyday for no good reason! And listen, I am not advocating for some return to a white 1950s expectation related to women’s place within the home, however I find it so difficult to accept that in 2022, with all the things we have figured out as humans, to not see this area of our lifecycle as inherently important to the rest of our collective futures… oof.

As an artist I have been known to use the analogy of pregnancy and birthing alongside my creative process. It’s true that there isn’t a baby in the form of a tiny human born of my body, though birthing a painting that says something, that makes someone else feel something, that exists beyond the mind is also a magical feat deserving of wonder. I do not analogize to create hierarchies about which one might contain more magic. Only to say, especially for those not in the habit of birthing paintings that this is something beyond the ordinary, and that the process also includes the body and a taking of materials in other forms that in their combination become something new unto whatever is birthed. I’ll paraphrase what my friend CW says about alchemizing, or at least what I hear her saying when she reminds us, that when we’re harnessing our creative practice, tuning into our unconscious, looking behind our eyes, moving materials on a surface we can alchemize our pain and turn it into something else. The process of painting can be as impactful as the product. If you have never felt this I wish for you to experience it if you’d like to do so. In my paintings I am healing my traumas, both mine and those I carry of my ancestors. I am caring for my wounded child self who wasn't always held, or experienced situations that led to my inability to trust others could hold me. On a good day, me and my wounded child archetype alchemize mud into healing. Painting is my constant journey to releasing that care into the world; healing myself so as to heal others. There’s magic, and wisdom, and wonder at each of our life stages, whether young, or old, or coming of age, or moving into to elder status, or transitioning from this life. And I starting to see that I live for the awe, and mystery, and marvel at each stage of my life and the life cycle of the paintings borne and yet to become. Regardless of where we find ourselves in these stages, may we find ways to be held throughout. Of this I am sure, we deserve it. 

What I’m Reading

Thin Places: Essays from In Between by Jordan Kisner 

Sometimes I don’t know why I gravitate toward a book, but as I found myself caressing this paperback in Bookworks located in Whitefish, Montana beside my Bestie, as I told myself I don’t have room in my suitcase for another book, Vaimo swept it out of my hands and purchased it for me fo my birthday. I had just taken a photo of the cover so I could add it to my library list and I’m so grateful I have my own copy because these essays are such that I will revisit again and again. Kisner is an astute observer who inspires the reader to feel her sense of wonder at the places that do not definitively mark a here or a there. The in-between, that I too am fascinated by which is currently manifesting in inside/outside, public/private blending of spaces reflected in brush stroke attempts in my paintings. All the way back in Montana in November I thought, wow I want to to read this right here in this store. Time and space and life kept me away from the collection until the beginning of this year. Kisner and I share more in common than not and I was surprised by the revelations as they appeared in the text. If you are into personal essays rooted in deeper questions about the world around us (ha, that sounds like my newsletter), pick this one up.

What I’m Watching

Bestie suggested I watch Harlem (streaming on Amazon Prime) since I’d recently come into a free 30 day Amazon Prime trial I was coerced into based on some purchases that I couldn’t make elsewhere at the top of the year. The show is great, think SATC meets Insecure maybe but way more queer and rooted in Harlem. What I really wanted to say however is that in the first episode, the main character Camille grabs a Tenure-Track offer for a professorship at Kansas State University sealed in an official envelope (come through prop crew) to take to her mentor at Columbia where she works. This is kind of a wild situation given her mentor tells her of course they gave her a good offer “but, it’s in Kansas.” Sure it’s a punchline, but I cannot recall KSU being part of a plot line on any other narrative show. She turns that position down to continue adjuncting because she’s certain she’ll be able to snag the Associate Prof position (lol because that is not how any of this works but I digress). Anyways, apparently Manhattan, Kansas is having a MOMENT because HBO’s newest dramedy Somebody Somewhere TAKES PLACE THERE. With only three episodes released, there is a lot of joy amongst grief in this show, and a gripping portrait of people trying to make a life somewhere that isn’t on a coast, so cheers to broader geographic representation that feels like home and pushing boundaries all at the same time. I’m also super into this trend that queer characters can exist in every place and on every show. I’m grateful for these small wins, because I live in a community where it’s more common than not for people to say (and believe) they’ve never met a gay person IRL. While representation isn’t everything I appreciate how it’s forcing people to see that the queer friend in the group can thrive, and that we are in fact everywhere.

Artist Offerings

• I checked out this virtual art show Chicana, Chicano, Chicanx, Mexican and you can too!
• I saw a tweet about someone who was mugged but then found her wallet because it looked like a piece of trash and then she shared the template! I want to make one!
• Supply chain probs means no print version of the New American Paintings but you can see the current issue digitally for free here
• The above, led me to looking more closely at Erick Antonio Benitez’s paintings
• So glad to see Judy Baca getting her flowers, but please, let’s retire “seminal” from the language being used to discuss her recent retrospective! PLEASE, I beg of you.

Creative Ritual

I’ve been dealing with a lot of administrative tasks, but I’m the new caretaker of a EIN and Minnesota State Tax ID. The paperwork process to acquire that and record keeping necessary for my taxes has been less than fun. And, I’m grateful for the process because that means people are buying my work (THANK YOU)! Peep this write up about my LRAC Cohort member Carmen McCullough’s work which includes information about a show featuring her work, mine, Nancy Valentine's paintings and Michael Burgraff's pottery. The show is up through February at the Charles Beck Gallery at the MState Fergus Falls campus. I’ll be there on Thursday February 24th for an artist talk if you’d like to join us come on out! Otherwise, I’ve been making steady progress on newer paintings and feeling like the birthing process has begun on a large diptych, spanning eight feet of canvas across two paintings which keeps feeling smaller each time I'm moving paint around! Thera are still a few Tiny Tequila study paintings available in my shop, thank you to those who have already invited the work into your homes! I am working on a new series/version of bottles to hit the shop before the snow melts around here. Keep an eye out!

Questions to ponder

How has care reverberated from you lately?
What marvels have you noticed in this thing called life at your current age?
What are you birthing?
How have you been held? How have you held others? How have you held your creativity?

Thanks for journeying with me. I hope, as always, that you take what you need and leave the rest for someone else, or for another time. 

-KCF

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