Before my child, I had never longed for a family, or even to be married. Instead, I fantasized about the echoing rooms of a museum, the expanse of dustless floors and white walls, the certain sacred hush that comes with such spaces, and then my work there, in that space. This was the first fantasy, when I was a child, the most generic of fantasies, but over the years, it inflated and morphed. I thought only toward expensive haircuts with very little bangs and trendy eyeglasses, a sun-washed studio in which many interesting projects were under way.
Friends with lots of opinions and good taste, trips to Europe, summers at residencies, and on and on. I won't bore you. What I'm saying is that I had imagined this entire life. I had dreamt it.
But then my body. Then a child. And, yes, he has brought me great joy-being a mother, despite my loudest protestations, has been pure and sweet and true-but there is not room for the child within the sun-washed studio. Or, rather, there is not room for art within my house with my child. It is as if all my dreams have been reset. The walls are blank, and with them I am blank, too.
All this is to say, what should a woman fight for?
Given her limited resources, limited time and energy and inspiration, what is worth fighting for? Is it art?
In the grand scheme of things, it sometimes seems so pointless, even selfish. To force one's point of view on the world-who really needs it, especially when a child needs a mother so immediately?
I don't have any answers other than that art seems essential, as essential as mothering. In order to be a self, it is essential. I should perhaps cease being a person without it.
Is that enough of a reason, that it matters to me?
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