Life is rarely what we picture for ourselves. Certainly, having children changes the course of everything for some of us, and in profound ways – not only our bodies and our daily routines, our careers and our priorities, but fundamentals: our points of joy, and surprising sources of fear.
Before I became a mother, it was all about me, my friends, my ambitions, the “self” I was trying to reconstruct, which was no small task after a childhood in which everything was about my mother. She could be cruel, her moods were unpredictable, and when I wasn’t the bit player acting out in the shadow of her latest dramas, my role was to remain her devoted audience.
As a child, I sought safe haven in words and pictures. I loved them equally, needed them equally, and though I wanted to be a writer, I also hoped to be an artist. I had no grand expectations of my minor talent, yet I still longed to be good enough to design, to decorate, and possibly to create fashion.
My greatest fear? It was to lose my vision – my imagination or my eyesight.
I could say the same today.
I’ve never wanted the flow of words and images to slow – not in my dreaming, and not in the long hours I often dedicate to shaping language to my specific purpose. Nor have I ever wanted to lose the pleasure of standing in front of a work of art – entering its rhythms, its lines and colors – asking questions of the more raw compositions, and basking in the lucid beauty of others.
Exposed and Exhibiting
For all her shortcomings as a parent, my mother served as an extraordinary model in several ways: she exemplified the value of hard work, the importance of learning, and the gift of a genuine passion for the arts.
Ours was a household with little money, but an abundance of books and pictures. Tables were stacked with texts, and walls displayed an eclectic assortment of objects and images – everything from 18th century etchings she’d snatched up for a song, to riveting and unusual works of the early 1970s.
These seeds of curiosity and creativity were planted young, and I’m grateful.
By twenty, I had dropped the sketchbook and charcoal for other pursuits including writing. It wasn’t until my thirties that I had the means to return to contemporary art, and did so with enthusiasm. I put a tentative toe in the water as a collector at first, later as an art writer, and to my delight, as the mother of an artistically gifted son.
As to that young man, there’s no question that he’s clever, quirky, and capable of provoking enormous worry, and was in particular, as a young child.
My Son, In a World of His Own (Making)?
My firstborn was – and is – an incredible talker. He never kept quiet, and to be frank – I loved it! In contrast, his baby brother rarely opened his mouth, except to hum or to laugh at his sibling’s antics.
My little one wasn’t concerned with talking, and teachers were alarmed. But he was absolutely content with paper and a pen, a colored pencil, the loaded brush, or even the desktop mouse.
For the joy that I take in experiencing art, I am grateful to my mother – and to my eyes. I am grateful to those who spend their lives creating for no reason but the necessity of it, and their own discovery process.
No artist is in it for the money, believe me. (And I might say the same of most of the writers I know.)
My home is in a constant state of disarray, or so I term it. While it isn’t overrun in quite the same way as my mother’s house, thankfully, I’m constantly trying to declutter and organize. In part, this is due to a small space, which doubles as my workplace. Nonetheless, everywhere you turn there are books and pictures – some, gifts from artist friends, and the rest, the remains of a downsized collection, with many works by my younger son. And so I am grateful to him as well – for the beauty he has brought to our home through his vision.
I can no more imagine a life without art than I could imagine a life without writing.
Cars? Clothes? Gadgets? None of that matters to me.
Words. Pictures. The people I love. That says it all.
Modest Mussorgsky, Pictures at an Exhibition
19th century Russian composer Modest Mussorgksy wrote a remarkable piece of music I heard for the first time as a teenager. It was played by four hands on two pianos, and it’s called “Pictures at an Exhibition.” One of the men at the piano was my teacher for several years, and someone I called a friend as an adult. We have long since lost touch.
The story of “Pictures at an Exhibition” is inspired by Mussorgsky’s friend, Viktor Hartmann, an artist and architect, who died suddenly following an exhibition of his artworks.
The musical composition that resulted is a masterpiece. I have no vocabulary with which to describe music; I can only say that these four hands on two pianos recreate the vibrancy and tenderness of a superb showing of images.
In my own mind, I revisit my mother’s walls as clearly as if I were sitting on the worn brown sofa in her den. I see my walls, art hung salon-style, filled with whimsical watercolors, mixed-media works, and the outsider art which I adore – rebellious, fierce – and a bit crazy.
I gaze at a 19th century image of an angel that once hung in my grandmother’s dining room, where my Russian grandfather used to sit and eat and tell his stories. He was a bear of a man, a musician, and son of a musician in Russia, one who lived at the time of Mussorgsky and Hartmann.
Not only do I see pictures of generations past, but of the future – my son, whose talent and work ethic makes me proud, but more importantly, it makes him happy. I can recall the first time he picked up a blue ballpoint at 4 years old and drew – to our amazement. He was barely speaking at the time (and spoke little for years), yet his fascination for line has never left him.
I see the pictures he’s drawn at six and ten and thirteen and fifteen, and one gorgeous painting which he completed at 17. These are the pictures at my exhibition that I treasure above all the others.
I hope my son will construct a future that will bring him joy, that his vision will fulfill him and enable him to earn a living (a legitimate concern in creative fields), and that he will leave a meaningful legacy for others.
One more pleasure in watching my younger son?
I didn’t raise him with music, and more’s the pity. But he took to it on his own as a teenager. His art is filled with the undulating contours of musical rhythms, his passion for the piano, and I’m thrilled to recognize the continuing legacy of his great grandparents, and their parents before them.
As for my greatest fear, it no longer has anything to do with losing my words or my pictures. My dreams and memories are amply stocked. Like most parents, my terrors reside on the flip side of my most fervent desires – that my children be well, that they know joy, and that they lead meaningful lives.
Mussorgsky, and Rekindling Friendships
Remarkably, on Youtube, I found two faces and four hands I once knew so well.
I offer you a few minutes of extraordinary music, “Pictures at an Exhibition,” performed by Anthony and Joseph Paratore. Listening to them, seeing their faces and their blissful immersion in Mussorgsky, I’m taken back thirty years. I’m simultaneously energized and content.
And it’s glorious.
Image of Chicks Sketch for Trilby, Wikimedia, Public Domain; Viktor Hartmann, watercolor, 1871
All other images, Yours Truly, artists as noted where possible. (Ruffino Tamayo, Pierre Alechinsky, Christopher Parrott.)
Inspired by the 5-day writing challenge at Momalom, Five for Five, subject: “pictures.”
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I am entranced with that video. I love how a beautiful, provoking image can capture the soul … just like a stirring piece of music. Watching the fingers fly over the keys — magical!
I love this glimpse into your younger son’s coming into his own as an artist and a speaker (even if primarily through his art). What a treat. Thank you!
Also:
Words. Pictures. The people I love. That says it all. Yes. And those pianos. Wow.
We really don’t know what they will become, though their clues are many from the time they’re tiny… 🙂 And we love them through all of it, don’t we.
Once thing’s for sure…he gets his passion for the arts honestly! Enjoy, Mom!
Quite true, Lisa. The music goes back to mid 19th century Russia! As for the art, not only did I dabble with my mother and grandmother, but there’s considerable artistic passion on his dad’s side as well. But damn – those art supplies are expensive. I don’t have to tell you… 🙂
“My dreams and memories are amply stocked.”
I understand this to be completely true. My memories and dreams are full. My greatest fears are for my children as well. My oldest one is my creative soul. He is already playing the guitar and banjo by ear. And those are the only instruments available to him right now. It worries me, but I love watching his art grow. Just like your son, he doesn’t talk as much (due to delay though) and has picked up on the arts like a sponge to water.
Watching them fly is part of the magic as you know very well. Your fears are not his fears. His art will grow and grow inside and outside.
The artist knows no bounds.
Alita
Thank you so much for stopping and reading, Alita. It sounds like you, too, will enjoy the pleasure of a child who needs the arts. Watching them fly. Yes. It’ very sweet stuff.
D, I love the direction you took this writing prompt. Through your words and samples of his art, you have created your own portrait of the artist as a young man – not to mention a portrait of the woman as she blends self and motherhood. Brava!
Thank you Kristin. (As a writer, this post makes me cringe – unedited, too long, meandering. But as a mother, and looking back (and forward), it makes me realize how fortunate a hand I was dealt.)
Thank you as always for kind reading.
Art, music, words, theater, grand ideas… If we raise our children with these, we do well. Expression and humanity, emotion and a thirst for knowledge. Good stuff.
I love, love, love that music. It’s music I heard as a kid in my parents’ house without knowing the story behind it, and then I opened up the cassette one day as a teenager and fell in love all over again. To see the pictures through the music, to be connected with the friend, and the exhibition–thanks for bringing me there, with you and your fabulous sons. 🙂
Love the music, the imagery, the spirit (and I related particularly to a son who talks a lot and another who says it with art, architecture and design). Certainly seconding your most fervent desire.
Very interesting take on pictures…I love seeing how everyone takes it in a different direction.
Isn’t that part of the fun of the exercise? 🙂
Beautiful writing. My mother is manic depressive, diagnosed after “losing her mind by the effects of anesthesia after surgery.
My words and pictures were my own (which she hated) but they saved me.
My daughter, who hardly speaks to me and who’s father also hated said “arts” (priding himself on never having read a book nor wasting time in museums/galeries)) is the assitant producer to a very well known artist/producer/genius and I am relieved that the hours we had spent with books (words and pictures) continues to “form” her and be a part of her.
It is a part of me that stays with her and makes her happy even though she rejects all the “rest” of me.
Reading your article made me realize that I am indeed blessed…
How old is she, LaBergère? Sometimes it takes years to realize the gifts our parents have given us. I’m glad you found something to connect to in this writing. And thank you for stopping by to comment.
I think we are sisters separated at birth. Even our children sound like clones. I love this piece. It is an honor to repost it and share it with my people. We still need to have that virtual coffee date. Blessings!
Thank you, Kristine. Then you must have cool kids? (I’m grinning.) And we do need to schedule that virtual coffee date! But I still have one more FAFSA to get through… can you believe it???
My daughter was 29 this past January. She gave up on me when she was 14. Her sister 4 years younger, followed her example. There was so much love between us (my children and myself), but then I left the marriage and their father’s influence coupled with my depression became “monumental” in their adolescence. There was not an outstanding “explosive moment”. After years of therapy and finally giving myself permission to be happy for the rest of my life, I still cannot identify “what happened”.
Although I was “uninvited” to her wedding 3 years ago and have yet to meet my 6 month old grandson, she told me that I was the “fire in her belly”. Hence I am grateful that I “share” myself with her. People tell me she is much like me. My son, to whom I have always remained close, does not know “what happened” either…
Most of the time I am fine and I go on with my life. It is a good one. I do not “wait” for her (or her sister’s) re-entry into my it. But should it ever happen it will be one of the greatest moments in my history 🙂
The wisdom and kindness in your article made my day. Thank you.
I love that despite a volatile relationship with your mother, you still recognize and appreciate the her in you, and now also your son. It’s a lovely gift that she had bestowed on the generations after her.
I feel the same way about my dad, whose influence on me was to be strong and independent, and even though I want to have nothing to do with him again, I’m still grateful for the parts of me that are him. The good parts anyway 🙂
The stories in the comments here stop me completely. This post has struck a nerve, and of course makes me think of my own son, and my wish to support and allow him to be himself, even if I wish he were otherwise.
I’m convinced we have to allow our children the space to be who they will become, Wolf. They’ll find their way to it one way or another, as my son, with absolutely no help from yours truly, found his way to music, not only art. It’s that “beat of a different drummer.”
Yes, to leading meaningful lives. Put it that way and I start to see how I so easily get off-track. It’s so easy to be swept up in the DO THIS, DO THAT…but for what reason? Instead, I want to focus on BE THIS because it will FUEL your soul. Or something along those lines. (Pardon me, I’m getting bleary.)
xo