Well, I am not a “Mother’s Day” fan because I was beyond not fond of it growing up. But, other than the traumatic memories of it, I’m safe. My mom passed quite a while ago, and later in her life, she finally got on an SSRI that magically made her quit attempting suicide, and/or threatening it. Before that, she usually chose to do such things on Mother’s Day, my birthday, or hers.

I was reading Mary Addison Hackett’s post this morning on her Substack called Nothing is Too Banal. She mentions a few different things that are both inspiring and coincidental to my thoughts of late. Some of those subjects are, in a way, new beginnings, caregiving, grief, and death.

My relationship with my mom was ghastly complicated. Years would go by without me speaking to her. I’d have nothing to do with her. Somehow, we’d partially come back together and have intermittent “mother-daughter” moments. I say that because I was always a daughter to her, and never seen for who I really was. Not to excuse her, but she was pretty old (much older than any of my peers’ parents), so her ideas were old-fashioned in that department. During her life, I also intermittently gave her a “pass” for this.

She also had severe mental illness—another factor for me in letting her “off the hook.” And toward the end of her life, it was I who realized I was a lot like her. I also have bipolar disorder. I’d say it’s not been as extreme as hers was, but I’ve had my moments.

Despite her unusual and cruel abuse, I took care of her when the onset of her Lewy Body dementia came into focus. It all happened pretty quickly, not a couple of months after my dad died. In that time, she taught me a lot about memory and what it means to be a human being. I owe that to all those experiences feeding her, washing her, administering her meds, and just sitting with her, talking and watching TV with her. It was both beautiful and depressing—for me. My mom didn’t grieve what was happening to her own self; she was perfectly content, and even happy.

After she died, my anger surfaced. Hindsight, and all that. But I also knew I would probably heal quite a bit: a new beginning. Any damage she inflicted on me was over. It ended right there. The trauma was still there, but I knew she couldn’t hurt me further. Eventually, I’d begin to heal. Heal all the way? Probably never.

In sight of all this, my mom, as a subject in my work, came even closer to the forefront. There’s a lot of meaning there that still interests me. I think this last series of paintings shows this.

My next project, which is underway (if only in my mind), does the same. That would be the dementia project that I’m tentatively calling What Remains. It’s more of an exhibition I need to propose, which includes several elements: drawings, paintings, photographs, as well as textile, audio, and found object installations. It’s also the project I pitched in my Creative Capital application. I suppose I’m waiting to receive a final rejection from them before I consider creating the exhibition proposal for a nonprofit institution or museum. I think, at best, the project could possibly make it to round 2, if I’m lucky. But we’ll see.

Part of my interest in the new project is to get away from a lot of painting, at least for a while. I haven’t embarked on this sort of project since the Exodus Project in 2014-2015. I’ve been jonseing to work in that manner again. I’m on a definite break right now. I haven’t made much of anything, except a little artist’s book, which I’m still working on. I also plan to create a larger artist’s book (it’s called Miami 1975) once I can afford the supplies to make it. And tomorrow, I’m registering for a printmaking class at community college to make some of those book pages. That will start in August.

I’ll probably write more about the college thing shortly because that’s a bit of a whole ball of earwax, or some kind of wax. Weird saying.