A Tough Night - 2023 11 23

 

Last night I thought I would get some work done at my art desk after Mom went to bed. I sat down to drink a nice cup of tea and watch horse videos on Facebook to inspire my effort.

It was a fitful night of restless sleep. Too many loose threads, unfinished edges, possible patterns.

I have added layers of blue and red pencil crayon to continue building shape and character into the crows. At the same time their relationship is evolving in relation to each other and the context of the conditions of their emergence.

Around 3 am I had finally started to drift off when I heard singing from Mom's room. I woke up again, trying to figure out if she was dreaming or awake. I hauled myself out of bed again to go check on her.

Working on the drawing gives me a sense of purpose to these strange, constrained and unlimited days. This portal of time that opened up when Mom came home.

Mom was awake. When she saw me, her singing turned to sobs of deep grief and fear. She named each of her children, asking me if they were going to be ok. I sat on the side of her bed and took her hands, reassuring her that we were all in good shape and she didn't have to worry about us anymore. 

Working on this drawing gives me a field to play with the psychological dynamics of relationship, ground, colour, shape, character, and tone. These words carry multiple dimensions of meaning as each day unfolds.

I gave her a sip of water and she said, "The water goes in and it is coming out my eyes."

I took her hands in mine and replied, "The tears are good. Let them flow, Mom. It is right to cry."

There is a sameness in each day. At the same time there are small changes that are not significant in and of themselves, but, over time aggragate into evidence of unstoppable forces at work.

Sitting beside her, I could feel her whole body trembling under the blankets. She wasn't cold, just wrought with emotion. I brought her a glass of juice, and then, a bowl of rice crispies, "Here Mom, we'll call this an early breakfast." 

After she finished eating I gave her a fresh hot water bottle. 

"Oh, this is perfect. Let me rest my cheek on it." Mom settled back into bed.

Each layer I add to these drawings is not perceptible as a single instance of mark making, but, over time, they also add up to something unstoppable, a force emerging through the work.

I brought in Mom's iPad and put on 'relaxing piano' music. The gentle sounds filled her room. I tucked her in and cleared up her dishes. She had stopped crying and relaxed into a deep sleep.

I never did get a mark on a page. The little time I had for actual artwork was used up putting things away, tidying up, and walking the dog. I was parked on the downhill for next time.