Little Wild Flower: On Motherhood and Art

Little Wild Flower

This was the piece that started it all. This cup stood only four inches tall, with the words "Little Wild Flower" printed on the front. It was a Christmas gift to my daughter from my mother-in-law, and I got a matching one which said "Raising a Little Wildflower." The present, though simple, meant a lot to me. I was so overwhelmed at the time, feeling lost in motherhood and like I was losing myself. The first 18 months of my daughter's life felt like I had to let my own passions die to care for her (an entirely common and devastating negotiation with the self that nearly every new mom encounters).

My daughter and I would share tea out of our little matching cups. When her little one ran out, I'd pour some from mine back in, never letting it run empty until we finished at the same time, making sure she always got the last sip. It was a sweet ritual.

I was just starting the process of really committing myself to my art practice, using the tiny mug for paint water. I was cleaning it out when I dropped it in the sink and it broke right down the front of the graphic. This felt like a sign. Art, and investing in my own self-indulgent hobbies, was a doomed endeavor. I could never be an individual, at least not without failing my child in one way or another. The pieces in the sink represented my inevitable failure as a mom, an artist, as a person with any interests outside of childrearing and housekeeping. I tried to put the teacup back together, messily gluing the shards, but of course, it was never the same. I took a picture to send to my mother-in-law, shamefully admitting that I'd broken the gift she gave to my daughter in my selfish artistic pursuit.

This started a several-month battle with art block that I couldn't really kick until I became really sick with the flu. I was so ill that my husband had to stay home from work to take care of me and my daughter for several days (any SAHM will know how sick you really have to be). I was stuck in bed and read somewhere that the ultimate cure to art block was a study. I hadn't found any masters that inspired me; I'd already tried that. So I scrolled through my iPad and found a picture of the broken cup. Even when I was physically ill, the guilt of not being able to care for my kid all by myself rang through me. But the photo was visually interesting enough that I thought it was worth a second look.

I laid back, and in a sort of masochistic frenzy, in intrusive bursts between fever dreams, I sketched out the cup in crayon. When I came out of that cold, I had the first thing I was proud to have drawn in a long time. So I took it further. After my girl went to bed one night, I painted the little broken mug. One sitting, and a touch-up the next night, and I was elated.

While pursuing art as a practice, alongside my struggles as a mom, I finally felt like I had something worthy of showing off. This painting pushed me to my technical limit at the time. The mug was irreparable but I finally felt like a whole person again.