The Mother Manifesto

Manifesto of the Mother Artist, thoughts during COVID, 2021.

Meg Porter

I awake to the sound of silence, the soft fur of my dog against my back as my eyes focus on the pink walls adorned with unicorns and mermaids. The light is bright in the windows and through my waking fog I realize that it is too quiet. I cannot hear the loud sounds of a television, or the random singing that sometimes happens in my house throughout the day like a radio with a short in the wire. The blissful vibration silenced by a tired mind the night before, I realize as I stroke the soft glass on my watch that I should have awaked an hour earlier.

My feet move to the floor, sidestepping sharp objects and paper that have lain there for a few days, stepping over the soft, supple animals that have fallen from the bed. I am greeted in the hallway by my own photography, things that only I love, yet I am too fast to enjoy the embrace. My womb, previously expanded by my two children, has a consequence of impatience and I, like other mothers, require fixing.

The silence is still quiet in my ears, my mind creating scenarios in a flash of mad panic, much like a painter might flit across the canvas when trying to capture fleeting light. I am downstairs and it is then that I see her, on a blanket in the sunshine, her hands caressing a piece of media that gives her eyes to the world. She is beautiful, it is my first thought, I only wish that my camera be permanently attached to my hand so I can never forget these moments. Her green eyes as she looks up at me greet me with love and I respond in a kind, albeit tired and breathless way.

My day continues as the sunlight filters through the spiderwebbed kitchen windows. Something that I have been meaning to clean for months, but just cannot stand the thought of disturbing her home on the outside of the glass. She will live for only two years, while I should live longer. Who am I to play God and ruin what is hers while she exists? Tick, Tick, Tick. It is just an excuse, for the time in my life drains so quickly. My mind is lost for a brief second, I do not know where it goes, it sees all, but records nothing.

My ears fill with her voice, telling me of the marvelous things she has done while I sleep. The tired haze in my mind lingers, and I am unable to follow the words that continue while I make breakfast and take care of the animals at my feet. I fill a cup of coffee making it just so and place it on the counter.

I glace at the teal clock on the wall, shaped like a mixer, one of just a few the artist made before receiving a cease-and-desist letter from a manufacturer. I think of that every time I tell the time. How a kitchen electronics company can dictate your art seems so invasive to me.

I gently remind my girl that her learning will start at a certain time. Her nose scrunches, not unlike my own when I find something distasteful, and I know that she will take twenty minutes to eat cereal that will be moist and soggy in three. It is not her fault that we exist this way, me a forced teacher and she a forced student, yet we must walk this path together. It was not supposed to be this way, usually, I have hours to work on my own while she is in school, but this decision to keep her with me is one borne of fear and thankfulness that I have the choice to do so. So many others do not.

I sit at the table we learn from, opening folders and arranging books in the order that must be followed. It occurs to me that I have not showered, nor have I eaten, or dressed for the day. My hair is tangled, and I mercilessly wind the black tie in my hair over and over to keep it from falling in my eyes. I imagine what a role model I must be to a girl looking for guidance.

I glance over the shelves of books and art supplies as I pull what I need for the day, my eyes grazing over a rolled-up phallic object that I have been meaning to use in my art. It is hidden from view and out of her reach, but it is there as a reminder to not forget my own endeavors. I always imagine the surprise in my husband’s eyes should it unravel and bounce to the floor. The thought amuses me for a moment.

Our day passes, hours on her school, on mine, on lessons. I long to read on my own, to hear nothing for just five minutes, to enjoy the hum of the heater as it warms our home. I want to sit in bed, my bed, and be alone as the hours grow longer in the company of this child.

My child. The production of my body that I have bound myself eternally. The child whom I wondered at just this morning, loving her so much.

I feel guilt.

Guilt that I need space, from the terse sound of my own voice as the day progresses, the tears in her eyes as she asks me to play, but I am just not available, my energy depleted from our constant closeness.

Guilt that my response to my name being called continuously is now answered with the word what, instead of soft motherly voice, welcoming and wanting to accommodate.

Guilt that the papers and stuffed animals are still littered on the floor, the spider still sleeps in her space.

Guilt that I forgot to prepare dinner, so we order out again, which does not help my self-image or the shape of my body.

Guilt that I have forgotten how to be a wife, our bed full of expectations disrupted.

Guilt for feeling guilty and resentful.

Night calls to the tired youth, and soon she is resting, her eyes closed for at least a while in the room full of unicorns and mermaids. It is then that I have peace, fleeting, as I must make conversation once more to keep my marriage sane. I move towards the kitchen one last time, trying to clear space on the counters when I notice my full coffee on the counter, not a single sip taken.

It is only when I have given the slightest effort of cleaning that I return upstairs, to the room I do not feel is mine any longer. She is already there, pulled in by a force called home, while mostly asleep, her sweet feet moving her towards the smell and feel of my bed. I will not pluck her from my resting place, for this is the place where she feels the safest.

I grope in the night, the darkness becoming my friend and enemy, stepping on toys that are my adversaries. I will sleep on this bed, but only after I lay awake for hours thinking of the things I only wish I had done. My body aches from the uncomfortableness of a short bed and I curse my inability to be persistent in my health. Only then will I again decide to silence the vibration and close my eyes.

Manifesto of the Mother Artist

Love our children, as if they are not permanent.
Take time for breathing, refreshing our minds to recharge the artist inside.
We must approach daily life with optimism, not for things we do for others, but for our own selves.
Make time throughout the day for our art. Remembering that children, when they are old enough,

can be with themselves for company.
Make art when we are angry, when we are sad, when we hurt, or when life is beautiful.
Make spontaneous and fast art.
Have long projects that you give time to, make art that isn’t something that you have made before.
Let go of finishing chores, it is okay if your house is not perfect. You are not and neither is your art.
Have your children take part in an art project for both of you. Sometimes inspiration can be found in

the way they do things.
Read and explore all art when you can.
Be active and navigate the world, this is something you can do with a child.
Keep a tiny journal in your pocket; write down thoughts for art when you find them in the day.
Let the spider live! Recognize her own art in the webs she spins.

This movement is of the most importance. Enclosed in spaces, fearful from sickness and death, women have moved from independence to only mothering. The work put in for years has dissolved in a mere eleven months. Not only must we work harder to stay afloat, but we also take on roles that we have not ever imagined. Roles such as teachers, managers of home life, and children on a 24/7 basis, compiling ridiculous schedules assigned to keep us safe. With these tasks come an entitlement from a patriarchal society that we are free, with unmitigated time, to take care of our homes. Our presence in our home should equal no dishes left behind, no dust unswept, all in perfect order.

If we do work, we should be able to handle these duties. If we cannot work because we are single parent, then we are lazy and the money we receive is handouts and we should get jobs. An article from Forbes magazine states the unemployment numbers from December 2020 showed a loss of 140,000 jobs. They were all women. 140,000 women made up the entire job loss while men gained 16,000 jobs. How we are still supposed to keep up with our lives, much less our art when worry and mental anguish clutter our minds?

It is not just artists that suffer from COVID, other fields of study are showing signs of a female withdrawal. Scholarly articles written solely by women are declining by percentage points from previous years. An online article by Inside Higher Ed states “Female academics, as a group, also struggled more with work-work balance, as well: numerous studies show they take on more service work than men and are less protective of their research time, to their detriment.” The ability to create is stifled in so many avenues amongst women. My own art is a series of frustrated, fragmented pieces that lay strewn about in various stages of completion. The manifesto is the only thing that keeps me going, moving towards a goal, a finished piece.

As we continue in the pandemic, it is of the utmost importance that we claim the time that we need to create, lest we forget who we are in the mundane lives we are leading. That is why the Manifesto of the Mother Artist must exist, before the work we need to make, for all that we are, is forgotten.