The last two thirds of the ARt challenge were fraught with major interruptions.

Before making the conscious decision to fall head first into a later in life motherhood. I interviewed every artist-woman I knew, every mother artist, every mother and every artist. My biggest question was, could I still be an artist and be a mother? Could I do both? Would being a mother, calm the quiet rage inside me? Would I lose my drive, my inspiration?  I had many other issues surrounding motherhood, and my non-predisposition towards it, but for now allow me to focus on art and motherhood.

I read many articles from famous artist that were also mothers and from many women that were also artist that had children. A majority said, that you have to give all to your craft if you ever wanted to truly succeed. Some, like Vivienne Westwood claimed it was possible but also unbelievably  boring.  An Italian sculpture who I found very inspiring claimed it aided her to focus her work. That one could no longer wait to be inspired, to have the divine muse descend when the circumstances were perfect. (not that I ever had that), but as an artist she made time for her art and made time for her children. Yes she wasn’t as prolific as many of her male contemporaries for awhile, but whatever. She made good stuff, and has no regrets in the winter of her life. She grabbed whatever time she could find and did it.

So with that, I’ve made time over the last few years. Rather I steal time.

Instead of conjuring up 2am passion, it has to be mixing paint after the 9am drop off.

This month, 12 days into the 30 day challenge, an exercise I needed to clear out the cobwebs and create new stuff.  The bubs gets very ill and we end up in hospital. A road we’ve been down often enough. But this round, it’s unfamiliar in it’s medical speak. I lose my mojo. There is a lot of dead time in hospital, a lot of sitting and waiting and checking and sitting and waiting and staring.

A few days back home, we start home schooling, I incorporate  art lessons into our every day lives, as it feels as I’ve forgotten to draw. I did draw or create every day, but it wasn’t the usual just show up and do it, it was forced. I had nothing. I blanked. Angry late night words on paper with lines that didn’t make any sense.

and that’s ok .

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