Edgar Endress

There is an aspect of being a father as a familiar figure, it is natural to the process but peripheral for some.  Simone was born in the same set of circumstances that have dictated our parenting life–in distance. Lori gave birth in Virginia and I was teaching in New Jersey. I made it on time to be part of the birth experience as much as I could be part, to observe and document. Giving birth changed everything for us because  distance was always a factor, 7 hours commute didn’t make it easy. Under those circumstances the European attitude of having the father also on parental leave makes sense. But in fact, Lori didn’t even get paid parental leave. For me my studio is where I am, I work with what I have, so I never felt limited by lack of access to the studio. Lori and I never stopped doing what we planned to do, Simone was three weeks old when we presented our work at a conference in Atlanta and the organizer was rocking Simone while we talked. But what really helped us was a residency in Germany. Lori, Simone, and I were in Germany almost a full year in a castle in Stuttgart. Simone learned to walk there and we traveled together in Europe.  There was always an inclination to make the kids (now two, Ian  was born in 2006) part of our academic, research life. Both of them have been exposed to lectures in migration and anthropology, as we didn’t have babysitters or they were sick and we happened to be in different places. They confess they don’t particularly like that, but they got used it. A year ago, Simone presented my work at an opening  because I was was away doing an lecture. Being part of our family means being part of every aspect of our lives.

-Edgar Endress

Simone and Lori

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This post is part of the (Pro)Create Anthology, a collection of narratives about the intersection of professional studio practice and parenting.

Cameron Schmitz

Since becoming a mother to our daughter, now 11 months old, I was both pleasantly surprised and shocked that I was able to get back into the studio only 3 months after her birth. I wore her in the Ergo baby carrier or in a back pack, and as a result, my work has taken a totally different and exciting shift.

She’s inspired a new use of color and freer way of working, and that has felt incredibly liberating. She’s helped me become a better problem solver, because I don’t have as many long, extended hours staring at a painting in the studio like I once had. When I had her on my back painting, I had to keep leaving the studio to give her new things to look at, and as a result I was able to see my work with fresh perspectives more often because I kept having to put my brushes sown and leave the work, to later come back and see formal problems that I would probably not have recognized as early as I did. Progress happened much faster. My biggest self-criticism in the past was overworking and over-refining my paintings. And all of a sudden, that was no longer occurring. I had a new sense of restraint because I had to be really specific with that I was doing with my time while in the studio.

When wearing her, I had to keep moving and bouncing, which immediately triggered a more active, lyrical approach to painting, and thus, for me, inspired a totally new body of abstract work which I am continuing to invest my time developing. This change has opened up new challengesthat are extremely exciting to me. I have fallen back in love with painting again. I get butterflies about my paintings in progress, which hasn’t happened in years.

Becoming a mother has changed me. I now see the world differently. I have never witnessed change and growth occur so fast as I have as watching my daughter develop each and every day. The birth of my daughter has heightened my senses and desire to express inner joy, wonder, unknowing, and the search for color in my life to mirror the heightened states of enjoyment that I experience from the simplest of moments in life.

As a young student artist I had zero female professors who were also mothers. Whereas 99% of my of my male professors were fathers with families. This was startling and disconcerting. All my life I have struggled with the notion of how I was going to be a practicing artist who also could raise a family and be a really great parent to my children. I admit that I still have those concerns, as my husband and I would one day like to have a second child and I wonder if that second, wondrous being might be “the straw that breaks the camel’s back”, so to speak. I don’t know.

No matter what, I think there needs to be a larger voice for artist professionals who are mothers not only “making it work”, but also being inspired by giving birth and raising a children. Being a mother is truly a gift, and my daughter has most definitely been a gift to my experience as an artist that I am forever grateful for.

-Cameron Schmitz

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This post is part of the (Pro)Create Anthology, a collection of narratives about the intersection of professional studio practice and parenting.

Mandy Cooper

I couldn’t have anticipated the lack of brain function motherhood would bring. Somehow not only is my physical body temporarily “Her’s”, but so is my brain. From the hours of 7am- 8-9pm everyday I don’t feel I can fully access those parts of my thinking involved in the creative process. They are highjacked, and all that remains is what I need to keep this little human alive and entertained. Serious studio time for me has evolved into a few all-nighters each week. This probably isn’t the healthiest practice, but for now- it’s my reality. For some reason after she has fallen to sleep, and my husband and I are headed to bed- all brain functioning seems to suddenly return and I urgently need to play out all the ideas swirling around. It’s the only time I know I will not be needed, and therefor feel totally free and mentally sharp. Although staying up all night after taking care of a baby all day doesn’t seem pleasant, they are incredibly fulfilling hours and seem to give me the distance I need as an individual and an artist.  My artistic practice (though hard to schedule) has helped me to maintain the separation and individuality I need as a mother and woman.  And having a daughter has given me insight into how very much I need to make art and produce work to feel myself.

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This post is part of the (Pro)Create Anthology, a collection of narratives about the intersection of professional studio practice and parenting.

Elsabé Johnson Dixon

I have always been fascinated with biology, so my first pregnancy captured my attention completely. Every sonogram picture was analyzed in great detail for its amazing surface textures and grain. I would also revel in small experiments during pregnant early morning showers when I could put my fingers on two places of my body and feel two different heartbeats. When Cobb was born in 1985 I loved to watch him; everything about him was so strange… he was so human. He made strange faces and his emotions were tied to his basic needs. I remember making drawings of him obsessively and these later turned into many etching plates. I had a great Canon camera that I used to photograph him as he laughed, cried, smiled, threw temper tantrums. I noticed work that other artists like Alice Neel made of infants… she too seemed to see the strange blotchy skin color and contortions…the neediness.  The vulnerability.

My daughter was due in December 1987 but Ina came early November after I climbed some apple trees in our post World War II suburban backyard, in a quest to learn the fine art of “Apfelkuchen”. We were living in Bochum, Germany, with a Richard Serra Sculpture in the town center where drunks would piss on the Core10 steel and cover it in graffiti every night. As out of place as that sculpture was, I seemed to be in place. Ina was a great baby and we would travel over weekends to Amsterdam, Paris and Berlin. In Paris we meandered through the Louvre; the National Museum of Modern Art at the Centre Pompedou; the Musee d’Orsay; Rodin’s Garden and the Musee Jacquemart-Andre. In Amsterdam we went to the Rijksmuseum, the van Gogh Museum, the Anne Frank house and the Stedelijk Museum as well as Rembrand van Rijn house – I was intrigued by his etchings at the time. In Berlin we went to the Hamburger Bahnhof Museum fur Gegenwart, the Neue National Galerie, Kathe Kollwitz Museum and the Kunstgewerbemuseum. For me it was a crash course in art history.

I did not make as many sketches of Ina as I had of Cobb but I remember writing long descriptive letters – in dramatic capitals only – to my printing professor, Robert Marsh, at Averett in Virginia. He commented that these letters looked like weavings and that he was not sure whether he was supposed to “read” them or just “view” them. I remember seeing Andreas Gursky’s first architectural photographs of communal spaces when we first flew into the Dusseldorf airport in 1987. We saw a lot of art while traipsing around with two little ones in tow. Breastfeeding made traveling easy – there were no bottles to pack. I also remember friends coming over and staying until the wee hours of the morning talking about all kinds of interesting things. These were my “salon” years…digesting vast quantities of art and being surrounded by interesting people.

Tom was born in 1997 and it was right after his birth that I received my first grant  – the Margaret Conent grant – to do artwork with insects. This work was directly linked to his birth. While I was pregnant, six months before he was born, my cousin came to visit me from South Africa. We were having conversations about our childhood experiences and I was extremely homesick for Africa at the time. I complained that there were experiences I could not share from my childhood with my children… because I was in America. As an example I mentioned my cousin and my shared experience of raising silkworms as children; a tradition passed down in our French family who first came to Africa in the 17^th century intent on starting silk industries. A week after my cousin returned to South Africa, a small packet of silk seeds (silk moth eggs) arrived in the mail for me with a short note: “Stop complaining”, it read. Tom has never experienced a summer without the smell of freshly cut mulberry leaves and yes…silkworms. He seems not to mind and spent last summer actively participating in a live installation with 6000 silkies.

I have always had a “devil may care” attitude when it came to mixing “having children” and my work or studio practice. I did not participate in family planning and I did not plan how I would work, or not work, when I had my children. I did not carve out time for myself but, instead, I learned to grab opportunities in small segments of time when it came my way. When I could not participate in specific studio practices I looked at art and studied art. Sometimes input is as important as output. You can “make” stuff but if there is no intellectual engagement in one’s studio practice it seems like a quiet, impotent ritual – vacant and strangely disconnected from the world. My children often became part of the creative process – standing patiently while I made body casts or life drawings of them. I found that the mundane tasks of changing diapers, feeding and bathing and playing with children often gave me great moments of inspiration and clarity.

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This post is part of the (Pro)Create Anthology, a collection of narratives about the intersection of professional studio practice and parenting.

Nikki Brugnoli

Before having Finnegan I took my time and space for granted. I wasn’t structured the way I needed to be, I was very focused on MANY things. Art, a bit (a lot) on the periphery. Becoming a mother in 2011 changed completely the way I considered what it was to be a maker, my practice, my understanding of time, as well as the need to very carefully and thoughtfully plan a working space within the boundaries of my home. My question of “sustainability” rose rapidly to the foreground, blurring most other, external concerns.

The first 2 years of Finnegan’s life were absolutely insane. Not only did I have a new life that was entirely dependent on me, but also I was renovating a house and adjuncting at 3 schools in Northern Virginia, all the while negotiating practical concerns like health insurance. My studio schedule consisted of naptimes, and bedtime and really only a very small amount of time all together. I surrendered to the need to focus on learning my child’s needs, as well as my own as a new parent. Art making became more of a conceptual incubation period – this lasted until Finnegan turned 2 and I was able to establish my home studio that was separate from our living space. I made very small, but important series of works and writings during those first two years.

I understood that my practice and sustainability required an intimate distance from my family. My studio moved to the basement, and I worked at night after my family fell asleep. 4-5 nights a week provided a thoughtful and nurturing space for exploring my new understanding of what it is to be a maker. Giving birth changed this ideology completely.

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This post is part of the (Pro)Create Anthology, a collection of narratives about the intersection of professional studio practice and parenting.