I wake up so early, when the air is sharp, and the sky is still a muddle of watercolour blue and grey. I tiptoe across the floor with a silence that I even shock myself with, and I swiftly grab my toolbox, torches, and pieces of metal, not yet transformed into talismans and amulets, ironically that are mostly imbued with the thoughts and intentions of protecting my children and giving them the best life possible on this confusing unpredictable mothership, we call earth.
I am in constant split between hyper-focus and hyper vigilant, between trying not to melt my silver and trying to align perfect hinges…and also between listening for the word that fills me with dread in this space, this early morning juxtaposition of chaos and also exact precision that metalsmithing asks of the maker, and that dreaded word, in this space, is “Mum”.
That word, a powerful word, a word that is so full of trust and need and love, it brings me down like a tumbling of cards, it is the sounding siren to wash my hands of flux and metal shavings, to pack up my humble toolbox as quick as I can, pick up my still red hot soldering blocks, my hands so tough now I barely feel the heat, and to get in the shower to make sure I washed off any remnant of any harmful substance that could potentially harm my toddler when she sinks into me, after realising I am no longer in the bed with her. It is hard, it is a hard juggle, I feel so torn laying down with her, and thinking of the hundred monotonous chores that need my attention, while just thinking of that elusive piece of paradise, that is the concrete floor, the humble toolbox and unfinished jewel that I cannot yet give any life to.
I am a mother of three, my two oldest are now independent enough to meet their own immediate needs, but with a toddler, I am always needed, always “0n”. I went through this pull of that delicate thread, all three times, with all three children in different ways. With my oldest daughter, now fifteen and my son who is now twelve, I was a full-time performing artist, which allowed me a certain amount of freedom in terms of being able to start and pick up where I left off while rehearsing and making costumes late at night. But it was still as if I was always this hyper-vigilant rush of lightning, trying to be the best mother I could be, earn enough money to get by, and also feed that forever hungry creative beast inside me, and I know, if I don’t feed that beast, it will break out eventually and it was ask for dues to be paid, and won’t be asking nicely.
My first two had a rather unconventional up-bringing in many ways, they accompanied me almost everywhere, from festivals to pubs and parties, assisting me with everything from props for circus and sideshow acts, to helping me wrangle our three pythons when I worked as a dancer with snakes. They have run with the other kids in a whirlwind of laughter when I have sat for hours at markets drawing intricate designs for henna tattoos or reading tarot cards and tea leaves for groups of women at birthdays and engagement parties, they have waited patiently to go home after long days of photoshoots, news segments and rehearsals. I was even mad enough to travel back and forth to Indonesia with them while I studied dance and art there (That is another story all together!), staying in an isolated house in the jungle, without so much as a local shop, where we would continuously run out of credit for electricity, or be trying to figure out where the giant aloo lizard living in our roof, was hiding all the chickens it had been killing. On a side note, my daughter Anouk Luna had been telling me she had seen a giant lizard in the yard, I didn’t believe her at the time and thought she was making up stories, until my neighbours (A hardworking couple from Java, making bricks and living under nothing but a blue tarp with their unwell baby, the mother kept me sane during that time, and I wish I held the same composure and calm that she had), told me to be careful of the huge Aloo lizard (monitor lizard), that she had seen crawling up the wall and into my roof. The kids would lay in bed with me, looking up at the hole in the roof where the light blub cord would hang through, and we would hear the dragging of it across the ceiling, seeing glimpses of its muddy scaled body, and we were just waiting for the day it crashed through!
I tell you what, that lizard was the least of our problems, I can’t tell you the amount of times I had to chase down packs of feral dogs, just trying to retrieve my daughters one missing shoe, they would take it right off her foot, and she made damn sure I got that shoe back. I look back and wonder how I did it, and I always come back to the conclusion that the beast inside me, that beast that needs to be constantly weaving creation, was using my body like a puppet, I was going to find a way to be an artist and a mother, not one or the other, but it was hard, extremely hard…did I feel bitter sometimes?…sure I did, and I also felt incredibly selfish. Something I do not think male artists feel to such a high degree.
I read a comment that a fellow artist Amanda Forward wrote some time back, and she described creating art as “ Stolen moments” I felt that to my core, and had been thinking something very similar myself (I will be inviting Amanda for an interview in the future, her artwork is worthy so make sure to keep an eye out for it) She really did hit the nail on the head there, they are literally stolen moments, we steal them from time used to give, that giving no-one sees, we cut down cleaning time to 30 minutes rather than an hour, we skip having a shower that night to utilize the time for drawing or other creative endeavours, and somehow we do it all, but at what cost? Because I know my nervous system has been totally shot, many times.
I no longer work like this; I feel the signs of frustration and burn-out. How do I know? The world seems fast, like really fast, days and weeks just fly by like minutes, and I am running everywhere, I am annoyed and clawing my way through to get everything done, I am literally vibrating with energy that has no clear purpose, because I am trying to be everywhere all at once, it isn’t good for me, and it isn’t good for my children. I will find myself making two or three separate dinners all at once, I will be running back and forth from the coffee machine before the milk froths over, to the boiling pots, talking a hundred miles an hour to my children asking me a hundred questions, showing me something, or worst of all…trying to express big feelings to me, or pressing situations where I need to read between the lines, be intuitive and really listen… and I am just not hearing them. Just the fact I was drinking coffee at 6pm, really says it all.
Balance.
Just how?
For me personally I have pulled back a little on metalsmithing, to one or two days a week, because the set up and pack up time is constrictive, the intensive focus and inability to just stop and start (metalsmithing is a needy and demanding force, where timing and precision is everything) can really put me in a spin. I have put more into visual arts again, where I can paint with my toddler on my lap, where I can slow down a little. I read more, I access what is worthy of my time and mental energy, like staying away from electronics that just suck up our entire being with cleverly implemented psychological warfare on our attention spans. I allocate time for my inner beast to take over, and I do not ask for this time anymore (especially from my partner) in a quiet voice or subtle speak, hinting that I need some time for myself, I take it, by force if necessary.
Honestly, time has slowed down again, remember as children when a week felt like a month? You know what the formula to that time travel and manipulation is, it is seeing everything with wonder again, it is watching the dust highlighted by sun beams through the window and wondering if each microscopic piece contains a whole universe.
So go on, go lay down on your back under that sunny window, and tell the dust planet people that I said hello.
Photography by Komang Suarsa.
