An Artist Residency in Motherhood
I spent many years sitting between and beneath a rotating cast of children as I read book after book. Those moments were sacred. And they were exhausting. One afternoon I sat on the couch with my youngest two squabbling over who would get to sit on my lap. As I was elbowed in the stomach in the scrum I thought to myself, “Only a few more years of this and I will finally have a few hours to myself every day.” No sooner did that thought cross my mind than another one came crashing in. Tumbling into my mind as though of its own accord came the realization, “This is no time for speed reading.” It struck me so powerfully that I scribbled those words on a paper and tacked it up on the wall.
That one moment of clarity did not turn me into a perfectly calm mother always capable of remaining present with my children and meeting every moment with equanimity. I still got it wrong multiple times a day. I still do. What it did was give me a guiding ambition. It was an invitation to take it slow instead of heedlessly rushing to the next thing. It was an opening to recognize that as endless as those days felt with children constantly surrounding me, demanding my attention, and inundating me with their needs, they would some day come to an end.
A few weeks ago I marked the last “first day of school” I will have with a child at home. I was surprised how intensely I felt this moment and all it portends. It is a complicated amalgam of emotions. On the one hand, I am genuinely excited for all that comes next. I am thrilled that I will no longer have to schedule my life around school calendars and I delight in the flexibility that allows. I am looking forward to having even more time to let my creative practices expand. And I am eagerly anticipating the time with just my husband and me. All of that is true. It is also true that I miss having my children in my home. I feel like it is a particular cruelty of parenting that just as I can start to relate to my children as fellow adults, they leave. My children have grown into interesting, creative, and kind human beings who I love to hang out with. It is difficult for me to envision my days without any of them in my home.
As I considered these tangled inclinations I realized that that same admonition perfectly captures this moment. This, too, is not a time for speed reading. I’ve sent off enough of my children to recognize that this last school year will be gone in an instant and I wanted to find a way to slow down the clock. Not to keep my youngest at home for longer. Only to make our last year together feel expansive. To notice what this year will bring, whatever that turns out to be.
In this context, when I stumbled upon the Artist Residency in Motherhood (ARiM) project, I knew it would be the perfect infrastructure for my hopes around how I want to spend this year. While I’m on the opposite end of motherhood from Lenka Clayton when she started the project, it still resonates with me. These days I’m not fighting to cram studio time into nap times or squeeze a few moments of writing into illusory moments of independent play. Instead, I’m struggling against the fear and calcification of middle age. I am grappling with questions of identity I did not expect to be examining in my fifth decade. I am trying to understand who I am if I am not a mother with children in my home. I am asking what ambition looks like for me at this time in my life. ARiM gives me space to explore all of that.
I’ve chosen to hold my residency from September 7, 2026 to May 31, 2027 because Labor Day and Memorial Day have traditionally marked the beginning and end of the school year. I want to both consider what this last school year brings and honor all the many, many mothering moments that have come before it. I intend to explore this through essays and artwork which I will share here regularly. I’m thrilled that my dear friend Sunny who is also in her last school year with a child at home is choosing to join me in undertaking an ARiM. It has already been a great boon to me to have her companionship.
At Clayton’s recommendation I’ve written the following manifesto that will guide my work during my residency.
Motherhood has been the rhythm animating my days for the last 28 years. It has been both a challenge to and the fodder for my creativity.
As I begin my last school year with a child in my home, I will embrace this moment as an opportunity to observe and reflect on motherhood thus far and create intentions for my next chapter of motherhood.
I will weave those observations, reflections, and intentions into my various art practices.
I will allow motherhood to shape, enliven, and guide my practices throughout this residency.
I will protect my studio time not from encroachment by toddlers, skipped nap times, or sticky fingers but from hesitancy, fear, indifference, and shame.
I will be intentional about creating community to support, encourage, and challenge my work.
I will honor the wisdom I earned on the frontlines of motherhood by trusting it and myself.
I will bring a spirit of inquiry, exploration, experimentation, and play to my art.
I will pursue this path with the firm belief that motherhood continues to hold discoveries and surprises for me.
I also recognized that I have struggled in the past with feeling that I am allowed to make art. I have all sorts of voices in my head that try to silence my creative impulses, criticize my work, and belittle my efforts. Recognizing that I am the only one who can quiet those voices (or at least choose to not listen to them), I also wrote myself a permission slip which I have written out, signed, and posted in my studio.
Acknowledging that I am the sole authority with power to grant permission for me to pursue my art, I hereby bestow unfettered permission to:
Take up space.
Write the words I need to write without fear.
Play.
Make bad art.
Be honest, even when it is painful.
Make mistakes.
Not know which way to go.
Pursue the currency of my own soul without concern for the judgment of others.
Start before I feel ready.
Experiment.
Create with abandon.
Expend resources (time, money, space) on my art.
Feel the fear and do it anyway.
Act under my own permission without seeking it from external sources.
Choose what I share publicly.
Be bad at new things I attempt.
Not be sure.
Feel all the things the work brings up.
Be gentle with myself when those feelings threaten to drown me.
Trust my own wisdom.
Ruin things.
Keep trying in the face of failure and rejection.
Prioritize relationships over external validation.
Abandon projects that no longer feed my soul.
Meander.
Allow my art to be motivated by joy, not fear; community not competition.
Call myself a writer.
Identify as an artist.
Signed: _____________________________________ Date: ____________
