One of the things that has been delightful for me is the artistic similarity between myself and my mother. My adoptive mother was creative but in a crafty sort of way rather than an impulse to create something for the purpose of expression. I do not mean to denigrate that, only to point out that they are two separate things. My b-mom is a sculptor and potter, a painter and a sketch artist. Her artistic ramblings and mine are almost identical in terms of medium, albeit our subject matter is colored by our own personal drives and views that give fuel to the artistic impulses. The other day she and I were discussing the mechanics of laying out a particular type of design and the pros and cons of different layout software packages, and even while I was engaged in the conversation part of me stood aside and did a gleeful little jig. I always feel a level of anxiety when I show her my artwork. I want her to think it is well executed, of course, but more than that I want her to understand what is being communicated. In a way I am hoping that she understands better than I do myself, and can help me decipher what my subconscious sometimes keeps from my conscious mind.
I made a series of digital paintings in the early 2000s. It was a time of great emotional upheaval for me. I had failed in my marriage and was struggling to re-invent myself and support our two daughters. Many of these paintings made sense to me even as I was creating them, but some of them only became clear (to various extents) after the image was finished and I had some distance. Most of these paintings I have put on my Facebook page or otherwise published, but a few of them I kept to myself. They make me uncomfortable, even now. I hadn’t thought about these in years but for some reason they floated into my consciousness a few days ago. Submitted without further commentary: