Painting The Hard Stuff
Nesting Instinct Underpainting
In Progress: "Nesting" 36"x36" Underpainting.
Hi,
Heads-Up: This letter contains sorrow.
...but more importantly, understanding and hope!
If you decide to pass on this one, I understand more than you know.
I promise, next week I'll have something pretty exciting to tell you.
Still here? Ok then, go grab a box of Kleenex and a cup of tea.
I'll wait.....
After a recent letter to you about painting over another painting, it
occurred to me that I still had another canvas that needed a do-over.
Two years ago I painted over it with dark opaque color and lots of
textured brushstrokes so the bright colors and ridges from the former
image wouldn't show through, then I set it aside and moved on.
It's huge, so I surely wanted to save it for something special. I just
didn't know what yet. Now I know.
With Mothers' Day fast approaching, and having just been to an antique
mall where I saw a charmingly weathered cast iron crib, the topic of
motherhood demanded, yes, demanded to be painted.
I didn't want to.
This particular holiday used to send me into hiding.
You see, Wes and I were unable to bear children. There's a deep sorrow
in that which people rarely understand unless they've experienced this
or some other related loss.
Before I go another step, please know that we've come to a place of
genuine peace with this, joy even, and a deeper love for one another.
But that took a very...very long time and we nearly parted ways at one
point.
Back to this painting...
I tried every which way to compose something whimsical around the crib
I had fallen in love with, perhaps something with cute little bluebirds
and stuffed bunnies sitting on a quilt.
But I couldn't. I kept thinking of all the women/mothers in my life who
have suffered in one way or another. Too many to count.
There are childless ones who, like me, tried for years only to suffer
forever the terrible unsatisfied hunger to bear a child.
It took me decades to understand that my life is truly a gift, and
everything in it belongs to the One who crafted me....a place where I
could finally trust my Creator to know, better than I, how best to use
my life.
Because of this I was able to understand other kinds of loss.
There are mothers who've suffered the unthinkable sorrow of having to
watch a tiny casket lowered into the dark earth and then be forced,
however gently, to walk away with the smell of fresh dug dirt lingering
in their wounded hearts.
I met a fellow artist recently who has had to do this three times!
Then there are mothers whose children were taken from them by a
deceitful estranged spouse who knew how to manipulate an already
corrupted local justice system.
There are mothers who year upon agonizing year continue to jump at
every knock on the door...who rush to it...hoping...hoping it's their
missing child returned safe...their arms still empty and aching.
And mothers whose children grew into adults who bought into the cancel
culture, rejecting the very one who carried them tenderly in her own
body.
These all are courageous ones, made brave from years of heartache,
years of learning to trust again.
These are the wise ones who understand that their pain, once they push
through it and reach out, can help ease the sorrow of those who come
after.
These women are too often misunderstood.
So this Mothers' Day...
Try to withhold judgement and unsolicited advice.
There is no quick fix for grief because healing is a process.
Give them the time and space they need. It's different for everyone.
If you or someone you know belongs to that sisterhood of hurting moms,
know that my heart truly gets it.
I am painting this because someone, a lot of someones in fact, need to
know that it's ok not to join in ...that we who know will never expect
them to simply, 'Get over it.'
We can, however, get through that day knowing that others have not
merely survived such loss, but have triumphed in the midst of it.
There are more of us than you may ever guess.
I don't know yet how this painting will look when I'm done. As you can
see, it has started out somewhat dark and somber.
But having written this, I feel the freedom to infuse it with hope.
Not all bunnies and butterflies to be sure, for that would feel
insincere.
I only know that it will be something comforting.
When I know, you'll know.
In the meantime, step outside and listen to the ever-reassuring
sound...of birdsong.
Jan
P.S.
Next week I will tell you about a visit to Ford House that took my
breath away! I can't wait for May 20 when I will join other area
artists to paint outdoors there.
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