2022

 

The Waiting Room oil on canvas. 16”x20”

Part of why I like this blog, is that I know that no one reads it. People are too busy living their lives to fuss with my ramblings about my paintings. So I feel a little more comfortable saying what I want to. My dad died in March after a year-long struggle with his health. One of the things he died of was Covid, but also 64 years of smoking. Also, neglect, stubbornness, and shame about needing help. He died of pain pills in the back of his mouth that he was either incapable or unwilling to swallow in his final days. I was largely unaware of how bad things were and struggling with how best to help from 2000 miles away, when he died in a small-town hospital after 32 minutes of CPR. I had spoken to him most days, for the last few years.  He was scared, brave, hungry, angry, weak, lonely, hostile, and eventually silent. During these last few years I have also been talking with living people. People afraid of Covid. People losing loved ones to Covid. But also, people have been having heart attacks and getting diagnosed with cancer. And losing loved ones to heart attack and cancer. This last couple of years as we struggle with confinement, fear, disruption, I have been focused on the young people. I look to them to tell us how this all ultimately turns out. The cycle is so apparent to me. People come in and people go out. 

So, this painting is called The Waiting Room. I thought about it a long time. My oldest daughter had Covid and I had to stay with her for 10 days. The company that staffs her apartment, (she requires assistance with daily living), brought me a pack that included gloves, booties, plastic glasses, a space suit, masks, a pulse/oximeter, etc. I put on the entire set and took a picture of myself in a mirror. When I got home, I tried to recreate the picture as a reference for my painting. I hung my gold teapot from my scarecrow, (what I call a tool I made for hanging stuff on), and the cheap twine I used, broke. My teapot crashed to the floor and there I was, standing in my studio, holding Christmas lights, looking at my shattered teapot. I mean, I was really sad. I immediately went online to see if I could replace it. I got it at a garage sale so I knew it was older. I couldn’t find one. Funny how sometimes when you’re contemplating mortality, scooping up the broken pieces of a teapot that symbolizes something like a life, you can get a meaningful reminder that sometimes partnerships and cooperation can make all the difference getting through it all. My husband walked in to my ridiculous predicament and found a new teapot and ordered it. “It will be here Tuesday.” Simple joys. The glow of love, that burns with desire, sadness, sometimes loss, grief, occasionally anger. I don’t ever want to be without this man, but one day, one of us will step off into the darkness. 

I was waiting outside of a bathroom in a medical office waiting room. I was accompanying a mobility challenged friend and standing next to the bathroom door. There was a weird little space with a window. A sunset. The feeling of peace, and sadness. The work that is hopefully making the suffering of others a bit easier. I snapped a picture with my phone. 

Teapots, in my studio world, mean something like, collective experience, or aggregate power. In this painting a figure holds the seeds of virus? The fire of life? Yes. They poor out with the “clothey blood flow” bit. It’s life. And life is experienced not only with fire, but with soothing blue lights. The suspended embers float for awhile in the middle, full of feeling, drama, heat. It’s temporal because eventually the floating embers will fall, burn out, and nothing is there. That is life. 

Also, towards the spout of the teapot, the folds of cloth are vaguely vulvular. The beginning of life. Where life actually comes from. 

That’s all.