On "Creative Marination"

Yep, I've been away for awhile. Ages, actually. It's amazing how life gets away from me sometimes. Imagine my surprise to return to this blog after all these months to discover comments on my previous posts -- and a follower, too! Wow!

Sometimes I feel the need to retreat, to cocoon myself. To find some solace in the moment where I can simply slow down and think. At this stage, my life -- like that of many women -- is a blur of to-do lists. Moments of crossing off one item while adding three more. Lost time spent in the car. One kid, then the other, off to school. Errands. Housework. Volunteering. Maybe an hour in the studio. Just enough time to wash (almost) all the paint off my hands before it's time to join the parade of silver minivans in the carline back at school.

But I don't own a minivan. And this isn't going to be just another "mom blog." Don't get me wrong. I am a mom. It's the hardest job I've ever done. Perhaps "mom" really stands for Master of Multitasking. Yet, that's only part of who I am. Sure, I recognize other moms' right to record everything their children say and do in the Public Annals of Cloying Cuteness. Nothing wrong with that.  However, for every mom who goes "Awww!" at those entries, I'll bet there are others who simply smile, then wonder when other moms will finally talk about how they are, instead of only answering how their kids are. Does anyone even care about that anymore? Or do they tire of waiting for an answer, and move on?

Waiting has been a recurring theme in my life. As a kid, I remember waiting against the walls in gym class, at the mercy of the popular kids, who seemingly always got to pick teams. When I got older, I waited for phone calls. Letters. Chances. Help. Opportunities. Acknowledgment. Decisions. After my mother was killed, I waited for an apology that would never come. After I became a mother, I waited for my chance to reclaim my time, my creativity. For my turn to be heard. For things to calm down. For the right time.

Then I realized that waiting was pointless.

Last week, I ran into a local art snob who scoffed at hearing that I never went to art school. In fact, she had the balls to tell me that if I hung out with housewives, I'd never be considered a "true artist."  So I asked her where Michelangelo went to art school. And inside, all I could think was, Why the fuck not, lady? It was an effort to keep from slapping her.

So I'm casting off the cocoon. And so, this is me. This is my art.