I listen to my books nowadays. The chronic migraine manifests as a blurry/ smeary/ blind right eye on the daily and I struggle to read text with any sort of length. I’ve been working my way through The Baby on the Fire Escape by Emily Henry. It speaks to the conundrum of the artist/ writer mother. That to be a good/ dedicated artist you must sacrifice all of your attention to your craft. To be a good/ dedicated mother also asks for the sacrifice of all your attention to care giving. Within these rigid constraints being both an artist and a mother is impossible.
Alice Neel, the famed portrait painter, was the subject of the tall tale that she once left her baby on the fire escape while attending to painting instead of parenting. By all accounts this was a fabrication, albeit believable because women aren’t meant to pursue other interests outside of their child rearing. I think it’s odd the most creative a human can be is when they are making bone and sinew. The ultimate act of creation that somehow leeches’ substance and genius from an artists practice. The true circumstances surrounding artistic male genus that facilitate this creative gestation is their partner, or assistant. Another human to effectively carry the mental load of existence. Someone to pay the bills, make sure the garbage is taken out and remind the artist to eat. Oh, and rear the progeny.
The same being that can awaken at a change in an infant’s breathing, hold the to do list, the have done list, anticipate the monsters and have a plan formulated not for IF but WHEN they appear and still be a fully present and nurturing parent cannot fully be dedicated to their art. That is what our suppressive culture tells the woman artist. It isn’t just men. The Baby on the Fire Escape story was 100% made up by women. Her mother-in-law, her sisters-in-law. Women artist who believe the diatribe they are fed.
I can’t speak for other artist mothers, but my motherhood has only enhanced my art. It keeps me curious and humble, broadens my sensitivities and has forged a patience I could never hope to achieve on my own. The patience that allows. For mistakes, solutions and for that autistic abhorrence of transitions. I will get there and now I have the patience to allow myself the uncomfortable passage.