When I became a new parent, my world without warning became defined by physical touch.  My son, like many babies, seemed to think he had to be constantly touching me to be safe and happy, like in my womb.  I didn’t know any way other than to give that to him, and it took a toll on my body and mind.  I loved my son beyond all measure, but I longed for space so that I could miss him, regroup, feel like myself, and in turn parent him better.  Without that separation, it felt like we were one being rather than two individuals; I didn’t know who I was without him, and I wondered if he felt the same.

When I read him an old childhood favorite, Leo Lionni’s collaged picture book Little Blue and Little Yellow, I found it strangely relatable in a new way.  In the story, Little Blue and Little Yellow hug each other so tightly they become one green form.  They play as one all day, but when they go home, their families don’t recognize them.  The green blob cries until it becomes blue and yellow tears, which in turn become Little Blue and Little Yellow again.  They show their parents how they became green, and everyone understands and plays together. 

My current work is about the dichotomy of being immersed in parenting while reaching for and respecting a separate individuality for both parent and child.  The emotional memory behind the photographs I paint determines the painting’s color palette: my son and I are touching in every green painting but are usually not touching in the rainbow paintings.  The green paintings depict a recognizable indistinguishability between me and my son as our own Little Green; the rainbow paintings describe parental bliss grounded in the joy of our respective individuality.  The whole body of work arises from the struggles of connecting and separating, holding tight and letting go, for each of us.

It can be a joy to paint, and a joy to parent; both can be a testament to your perseverance.  Without those green moments, the rainbows wouldn’t be so spectacular.