Original 2003-2004__ Oil on Canvas__ 48 in. x 36 in.
Circling back to what's already been written below:
I apologize in advance, Dear Reader, for doing this - circling back. But my mind works that way, and often i'll come back and pick up a thread because there is something else I felt was important to say something that I want to / need to add. This morning was one of those kinda mornings. And I found myself thinking about what I had started to say about FREEDOM when writing about Shain's Way. I'm not entirely sure that ALL of what was going on in my head when I wrote it was clear. So here it is.
I've been thinking a LOT about FREEDOM lately. And how it is the most important thing. Freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom to assemble, freedom of thought. . . . freedom (for most things, though we sometimes don't have it) to choose . . . . Sometimes we have complete freedom, and sometimes we don't. What then when we lose even one small freedom -- like the freedom to choose to have a family? What if you were to lose just one tiny little freedom in your life, Dear Reader? What if you or I, what if we, were to lose ALL of our freedoms? What then?
I'm watching the news come in over several different feeds from several disparate sources. And the News is not good. It is ratcheting up the fear. And I know I need to turn it off! But I can't. I am mesmerized, caught in the swirling avalanche of it all . . . wondering too why nobody else is seemingly worried at all . . . which has the counterproductive effect of worrying me even more. . . . I know I will have to paint something to get out of this and land on my feet on terre firme. So here it comes again . . .
There are instances in which we are completely free to choose, and there are times we lose our freedom our ability our right to choose. Losing one's capacity to bear children - that one had always dreamed of having - NOT a choice. And of course, there is also the FREEDOM to allow what had happened to me to guide the rest of my life and continue onward with a ripple effect, or to allow something else to enter into my life to fill that void -- perhaps not what my first choice would have been (create a child versus create an image on a blank canvas) -- not my choice, but something I can live with, something I can take joy in, something that enables me to cope with the loss. What if that something was even better (for me) than what I lost? Could that happen? Choosing happiness no matter how difficult, no matter what, choosing to LIVE. To really live. That too is a CHOICE. Having complete freedom to choose -- not always possible.
And one can see from this small example -- my loss of the ability to have my own child I so desperately wanted -- and how it impacted me, how it came out in my art, how deeply felt -- if that is what loss of freedom of choice feels like for that one thing deep unimaginable pain penetrating every fiber of who you are moment in time -- imagine, just imagine if you will, what losing ALL OF OUR FREEDOMS would feel like.
It's hard to even imagine that. And harder still to imagine what sort of coping mechanisms one would need to be there to draw on to get one through. For those who have suffered some loss in their lives the concept of losing all freedom of choice losing all control losing everything and not just me losing it all but also my friends my family my neighbors my colleagues my community my country -- what if we all collectively lose it all? What would we as a People used to having / raised on having / having lived a lifetime with freedom - what would we feel - ? - what would we do - ? - and how would we as a People survive? My guess is that many People would not be able to cope with losing it all.
These are the sorts of things that haunt me sometimes when I lie awake at night, as I flick the stations back and forth wanting really begging for a respite from this nightmare engulfing the United States of America - watching the winds of change envelop us all and watching the sails unfurl on the ship as it heads straight away directly unknowingly into the coming storm . . . .
So here is how i survived the loss of just one small freedom. The freedom to pro-create. And this is how I coped. This is how I moved forward. Not without pain. Not without suffering. But finding my way through it. Finding light at the end of the tunnel. And finding joy. How I found something else to fill my heart and feel good about and stop focusing on the loss and start to re-focus on the positive. (Later, under ENCHANTED, I will explain how even this -- even this admittedly poor substitute for a deep desire for children how this - the paintings - which would have to serve as a fill-in in my life - were also taken away from me) ~
To suffer and survive and come out whole on the other side is not easy but it can be done. Remember that, Dear Reader. It CAN be done!
So i guess in some strange way, whatever is coming next for me and for all of us in this moment here in the history of our Homeland,
FREEDOM. Freedom is the ability to express one's true self - free of any inhibitions or censorship. That's what ART is. And that's a powerful thing. Art requires honesty in one's approach to it. Honesty about your life, your losses, your loves, your fears -- all of it. To be completely open and honest and put that down in writing - or on a canvas - is to be naked in front of the World with nowhere to hide. The process. It's not only risky, it's scary too.
Art is about many things. For me, art is above all about love. Being free enough courageous enough to pursue one's passion and choose to be an artist was for me to choose love, and it was definitely not an easy choice. I would have to give up many things of great significance. And my choice of this love came with sacrifice - and it came at the beginning, not at the end of my career as a surgeon. After 17 years of higher education. After 17 years of giving up having much of a social life, free weekends and Holidays with loved ones.
Having the ability to choose freely does not always mean that we flex that muscle and exercise that choice. Even if that's what we are meant to do. Even if that possibility presents itself. Most people are content to settle for something less than pure joy and the fulfillment of their deepest desires - and if not entirely happy, are resigned to be just that. For me, the choice was extremely difficult for I had no community no family nobody rallying behind me in making this particular choice. In fact, quite the contrary. Those closest to me sought to dissuade me and tried hard to convince me not to take this different path and walk away from the advanced education and training and arduous preparation for a certain life - and any potential benefits that would accrue from all of my years of devoted studies, hard work and sacrifice. They said they were speaking about what was best for me - but each person who stops you from pursuing true happiness - is not speaking for you. They have other ideas or motives - but you are definitely not at the heart of it. So how does one make the most important of choices -- to be happy. There is just no way around it, especially when you alone have to make the choice - pursuing potentially the greatest joy you will ever experience in this short life we are given, or taking it safe? Few choose The Road Not Travelled: It is frightening jumping into the abyss.
All that said, Shain's Way in particular was NOT about the freedom to choose. For the events that led up to it were not of my choosing. This is the background of what went into this painting. It's important that I tell you all this though to lay the background of the work. Because, at the end of the day, it seems that I am someone who has and will risk the consequences even knowing how much I have to lose. Because I will always above all choose love.
It is a very sad day indeed when anyone loses a parent. This may be due to death, or for some other reason. But it's especially tragic when a young boy loses his father or a young girl her mother. It's a significant loss that resonates through the years, often in ways unseen. It's only natural then that after losing family, you would want to recreate that. Loss of the ability to do that deals an especially cruel blow. (Pinks and baby blues . . . . )
The ability to bring a life into this World, to nurture it and watch it grow. . . is there anything more valuable? I can't think of anything more powerful than that. But what of those who can't create life? What does God intend for them? Creation is the ultimate gift. God giveth and God taketh away. And then, God giveth again.
I had a wonderful childhood.
(At least, that is the part of it that on most days, I choose to remember. There were moments and days I try to forget. . . )
I lost my father twice. It seemed like he was gone for much of my childhood. His business. It took him away. Far away. And often on short or no notice. He was often just not there. . . . . . After my mom passed, he disappeared entirely. . . somewhere in Southeast Asia I believe. . . . then he was back. . . . then he was gone again . . . .and so it went . . . .until he passed . . . . .
Nothing is all black or all white. There is grey.
Even though he wasn't always there, he was still my father.
(I have a half-brother I've never met. He lives in Southeast Asia. He may not even know I exist. He is a well-known filmmaker in his Homeland. He creates. I find that extraordinary. . . )
At a recent meeting with fellow artists in what is known as a "Critique," I had several pieces of my work reviewed. The feedback from other artists was illuminating and invaluable. Some of that critique focused on the work titled, Shain's Way, and the consensus was that it was beautiful, but unlike the other pieces being reviewed that evening in Los Angeles, this work was on the 'quiet (understated) side' compared to many of the others. Many of the artists in the group were loud and outspoken and seemed to prefer works that spoke with a louder and more forceful voice. One called it a 'masterful contemporary version of an earlier impressionistic era,' - 'Monetesque in a way.' That seemed to more or less be the consensus. And talk quickly turned to other works in the group, like Covaggio in Eden and especially the hauntingly beautiful Winter in Hubei painted in January 2020. (Some of us were paying careful attention to World events even before the Pandemic, so news of the goings on in Hubei Province, where there is a known P4-weapons lab, was a disturbing turn of events indeed. Those of us watching from outside the WH were hoping that those inside knew about Wuhan too and were equally concerned about the man heading the medical/clinical U.S. response.)
I sat quietly listening to the comments, as is 'critique etiquette,' but my mind kept wandering back to the comments made about Shain's Way. I wondered about the comments (not forceful enough? not loud enough? What does it even say, it's like it's just whispering - - - - - - - really?), because it was not at all the way I feel about or view this painting. I realized that they didn't know the story of Shain's Way, and how it came to be.)
* * * * *
My next door neighbor stepped off of the elevator. She hurried past my door towards her apartment at the end of the hallway so quickly that I barely had time to get to my door handle to open it. She was facing the floor. Maybe her dog Daphne needed to go out and she was in a rush. She moved so quickly and I was caught up wrangling my boys, over 200 pounds of pure energy, that I didn't have adequate time to get through my door and step out into the hallway, before she disappeared quickly slipping inside #303. (Sim was quite good at letting me know when anyone was passing by the door, just one of his many incomparable talents! He'd stand at attention and glance back and forth between me and the door, alerting me to the presence of someone on the other side. In this manner of stopping and repeatedly pointing, he was able to draw my attention to many things - everything from casual passersby to delivery men with packages to Earthquakes to dangerous predators - more about that later, Dear Reader. But on that particular morning, it was Shain.)
I was worried about her. So later that evening I stopped by my neighbor's apartment to see how she was doing. The news was not good. She was going to have to undergo a prophylactic hysterectomy to prevent the risk of the cancer spreading. She relayed the news to me matter-of-factly, unflinchingly, in as clinical a tone as one could imagine. I told her that the surgery was "no big deal," having been through it myself at a much younger age and that the important thing --- the only thing right now -- was surviving. I would be there if she needed me. I told her to call me any hour of the day or night and I would be there to help in any way I could. And I told her, "It's okay to cry." And with that, I gave her the space she needed, gave Daphne a quick pat on the head, and headed home with My Boys.
Alone in my apartment I went to the second bedroom and pulled out a large pre-stretched already primed blank canvas. I was overcome with 'that feeling.' The one that when it overwhelms grabs hold of me, forces me to follow its will. I had to paint. Pale Pinks and softer shades of blue. Soft pinks and baby baby blues. That's my palette and I don't even realize why. I'm just grabbing hold of tubes of oils and mixing and prepping and everything I grab is some shade of pink or blue. And then I am overcome with emotion as my hands fly across the substrate and flowers suddenly out-of-nowhere explode onto the canvas without me guiding them. One by one they appear and populate my fields and - - And, and slowly enter calm. And suddenly out of nowhere with no-one around to hear me - except for My Boys, it happened. I buried my face in my hands and then uncontrollably, I began to weep.
* * * * *
Years had passed since my own diagnosis with cancer. And the surgery that makes you feel like you are no longer a woman. I guess I assumed I had moved on. At the time -- back then -- I only wept once. But it was merely a split second in time, because Nottheo wouldn't hear of it! We were on the phone when I started to cry for all I was losing and feeling -- the fear of the cancer itself, the loss of one's womanhood, the catapulting into hormonal changes normally experienced by a woman twice my age (who has already had the gift of children and the joy and love they bring), the concern over the surgery itself, the disruption of any hopes and dreams and plans I had for my future, yes, most importantly the loss of a chance of having a family of my own.
I called Nottheo longing for someone to talk to. Wanting to hear that it would be alright. Hoping for some words of solace. Some small degree of empathy. I could hear all the children playing in the background at the other end of the line. The two oldest, and her toddler and her baby crying for a bottle. Her dog was barking as her oldest chased the dog around the home, and she yelled out admonishments at them to not make a mess. We were on the phone, but she wasn't present. She was caring for six. And then out of nowhere listening to all the children playing at the other end of the line, I began to sob.
"STOP IT!" she rejoined the conversation abruptly to issue the command. "STOP YOUR CRYING RIGHT NOW GOD DAMN IT! STOP IT OR I'M HANGING UP ON YOU!!"
Her words snapped me to attention, and I stifled my voice at the other end of the phone and gasped and choked back on my tears. And then she let me have it,
"Plenty of women can't have children. So what?! You're not the only one. Stop making a big deal out of it. Pull yourself together - and just stop it. I don't want to hear this out of you ever again. Do you understand me? If you cry again, I'm hanging up on you. DEAL WITH IT!"
"Okay," I responded meekly between gasps of choking back tears because I didn't want her to hang up on me. And so I grabbed hold of myself and immediately stopped. And I tried to toughen up. I told myself not to cry. Not ever to cry. And she told me she needed to be tough with me and did it because she cared and because that was what I needed - tough love. Anything less would mean she really didn't care. And every time someone yelled at me or ripped me apart - I would hear those same words -- "you need this" and "you are getting this because we care about you. . ."
I never did grieve my losses. I never did cry again that night. Or that week. Or that month. Or in the years that passed. I just bottled it up inside of me. Grieving was a luxury to which I was not entitled. And that was that.
That is, until I learned that Shain was going to have the same surgery. Honestly, I didn't really know Shain all that well. But we were friendly. She was a neighbor, and she was very nice. And I admired many things about her, not the least of which was her 'stiff upper lip' in the face of any kind of personal adversity. That was a great way to be -- Strong. "Shain's Way" of being. Why couldn't I (really) be more like her? I am, and I am not. I can put on a false front and act tough and be like her. But I am not like Shain. I pretended to be, for Nottheo. I became very good at pretending. Good at hiding my feelings. Good at being clinical. Good at not showing any of the hurt. But inside of me, things were different. And I had to hide it, because it was a weakness to show that side.
* * * * *
Shain's Way was completed in the days that immediately followed (adding and subtracting until it just "felt right" - it was fast though - perhaps I painted it more quickly than any other painting I've ever worked on. It is possible that I channeled it so quickly because it was a painting I had been working on inside of me for a very, very long time. Too long. People say it's quite beautiful. Many art critics have likened it to a contemporary version of Monet. To see it in person, it is truly beautiful. Even I can see that. There's just something about it, and I can't put my finger on exactly what it is -- but there's a feeling you get when you look at it that's undeniably there. So I didn't agree with the critique group. To me Shain's Way feels like both the most understated and yet the most powerful of any work I've ever done. Maybe that's because I now know what painting it meant to me. Strangely, I can't remember all of the actual process of painting it. That's a complete blur as happens often in the creative process. Someone is whispering softly in my ear. I hear a woman's voice, and she is singing a familiar lullaby. I hear my mother - she is reading me poetry. Whitman and Stevenson and Coleridge. And singing songs from musicals. And helping me select a dress for my high school prom. I feel my mother holding my hand in hers as we walk down the streets of New York City in the snow and cold looking in at the magical Christmas windows. And now it is my turn. . . and now it isn't. . . And I remember crying while finishing the painting. I remember that Buster and Sim never left my side, not even for one moment, while I worked on it for several days in a row, without a break. But putting the paint on the brush and touching the canvas - that I do not remember. Strange. But I do know one thing about it - - it is the single painting that to this day continues to exert this strange and totally inexplicable effect upon me. That is because whenever I look at this painting, I have to try hard to keep from crying. And although not as much now as before, I'm still pretty good at hiding the sorrow from that feeling of loss of something that won't ever be...
But in spite of what happened to me, I probably should end by saying that Shain's Way is not about loss. Loss just enabled me to paint it. Shain's Way is about creation. It's about children, because they are our future. At its core, Shain's Way is all about our innermost feelings and desires. It's the reason I paint. Because ultimately, Shain's Way is above all, about love.
(Shain's Way tugs so at my heart strings making it really tough not to cry, but it does. Maybe those feelings so raw escaped that one time and somehow jumped onto the canvas in a last ode to Motherhood. Or maybe something else entirely happened. I can't fully explain it . . . . . Soft baby pinks and even softer baby blues.)
Copyright 2021 Janai-Ami
Provenance:
Group Exhibition, Don O'Melveny Gallery, Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles, California
International Exhibition, Jacob Javits Center, New York City, New York
Temporary Exhibition, Residence of United States Ambassador (Haiti) Helen LaLime
Exhibition, United States Embassy, Maputo, Africa
Private Collection, New York University, New York City, New York
Current: Artist's Private Collection, Los Angeles, California
SHAIN'S WAY
Original 2003-2004__ Oil on Canvas__ 48 in. x 36 in.
Circling back to what's already been written below:
I apologize in advance, Dear Reader, for doing this - circling back. But my mind works that way, and often i'll come back and pick up a thread because there is something else I felt was important to say something that I want to / need to add. This morning was one of those kinda mornings. And I found myself thinking about what I had started to say about FREEDOM when writing about Shain's Way. I'm not entirely sure that ALL of what was going on in my head when I wrote it was clear. So here it is.
I've been thinking a LOT about FREEDOM lately. And how it is the most important thing. Freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom to assemble, freedom of thought. . . . freedom (for most things, though we sometimes don't have it) to choose . . . . Sometimes we have complete freedom, and sometimes we don't. What then when we lose even one small freedom -- like the freedom to choose to have a family? What if you were to lose just one tiny little freedom in your life, Dear Reader? What if you or I, what if we, were to lose ALL of our freedoms? What then?
I'm watching the news come in over several different feeds from several disparate sources. And the News is not good. It is ratcheting up the fear. And I know I need to turn it off! But I can't. I am mesmerized, caught in the swirling avalanche of it all . . . wondering too why nobody else is seemingly worried at all . . . which has the counterproductive effect of worrying me even more. . . . I know I will have to paint something to get out of this and land on my feet on terre firme. So here it comes again . . .
There are instances in which we are completely free to choose, and there are times we lose our freedom our ability our right to choose. Losing one's capacity to bear children - that one had always dreamed of having - NOT a choice. And of course, there is also the FREEDOM to allow what had happened to me to guide the rest of my life and continue onward with a ripple effect, or to allow something else to enter into my life to fill that void -- perhaps not what my first choice would have been (create a child versus create an image on a blank canvas) -- not my choice, but something I can live with, something I can take joy in, something that enables me to cope with the loss. What if that something was even better (for me) than what I lost? Could that happen? Choosing happiness no matter how difficult, no matter what, choosing to LIVE. To really live. That too is a CHOICE. Having complete freedom to choose -- not always possible.
And one can see from this small example -- my loss of the ability to have my own child I so desperately wanted -- and how it impacted me, how it came out in my art, how deeply felt -- if that is what loss of freedom of choice feels like for that one thing deep unimaginable pain penetrating every fiber of who you are moment in time -- imagine, just imagine if you will, what losing ALL OF OUR FREEDOMS would feel like.
It's hard to even imagine that. And harder still to imagine what sort of coping mechanisms one would need to be there to draw on to get one through. For those who have suffered some loss in their lives the concept of losing all freedom of choice losing all control losing everything and not just me losing it all but also my friends my family my neighbors my colleagues my community my country -- what if we all collectively lose it all? What would we as a People used to having / raised on having / having lived a lifetime with freedom - what would we feel - ? - what would we do - ? - and how would we as a People survive? My guess is that many People would not be able to cope with losing it all.
These are the sorts of things that haunt me sometimes when I lie awake at night, as I flick the stations back and forth wanting really begging for a respite from this nightmare engulfing the United States of America - watching the winds of change envelop us all and watching the sails unfurl on the ship as it heads straight away directly unknowingly into the coming storm . . . .
So here is how i survived the loss of just one small freedom. The freedom to pro-create. And this is how I coped. This is how I moved forward. Not without pain. Not without suffering. But finding my way through it. Finding light at the end of the tunnel. And finding joy. How I found something else to fill my heart and feel good about and stop focusing on the loss and start to re-focus on the positive. (Later, under ENCHANTED, I will explain how even this -- even this admittedly poor substitute for a deep desire for children how this - the paintings - which would have to serve as a fill-in in my life - were also taken away from me) ~
To suffer and survive and come out whole on the other side is not easy but it can be done. Remember that, Dear Reader. It CAN be done!
So i guess in some strange way, whatever is coming next for me and for all of us in this moment here in the history of our Homeland,
Je Suis Prêt . . .
________________________________________________________________________________________
About the painting, Shain's Way
FREEDOM. Freedom is the ability to express one's true self - free of any inhibitions or censorship. That's what ART is. And that's a powerful thing. Art requires honesty in one's approach to it. Honesty about your life, your losses, your loves, your fears -- all of it. To be completely open and honest and put that down in writing - or on a canvas - is to be naked in front of the World with nowhere to hide. The process. It's not only risky, it's scary too.
Art is about many things. For me, art is above all about love. Being free enough courageous enough to pursue one's passion and choose to be an artist was for me to choose love, and it was definitely not an easy choice. I would have to give up many things of great significance. And my choice of this love came with sacrifice - and it came at the beginning, not at the end of my career as a surgeon. After 17 years of higher education. After 17 years of giving up having much of a social life, free weekends and Holidays with loved ones.
Having the ability to choose freely does not always mean that we flex that muscle and exercise that choice. Even if that's what we are meant to do. Even if that possibility presents itself. Most people are content to settle for something less than pure joy and the fulfillment of their deepest desires - and if not entirely happy, are resigned to be just that. For me, the choice was extremely difficult for I had no community no family nobody rallying behind me in making this particular choice. In fact, quite the contrary. Those closest to me sought to dissuade me and tried hard to convince me not to take this different path and walk away from the advanced education and training and arduous preparation for a certain life - and any potential benefits that would accrue from all of my years of devoted studies, hard work and sacrifice. They said they were speaking about what was best for me - but each person who stops you from pursuing true happiness - is not speaking for you. They have other ideas or motives - but you are definitely not at the heart of it. So how does one make the most important of choices -- to be happy. There is just no way around it, especially when you alone have to make the choice - pursuing potentially the greatest joy you will ever experience in this short life we are given, or taking it safe? Few choose The Road Not Travelled: It is frightening jumping into the abyss.
All that said, Shain's Way in particular was NOT about the freedom to choose. For the events that led up to it were not of my choosing. This is the background of what went into this painting. It's important that I tell you all this though to lay the background of the work. Because, at the end of the day, it seems that I am someone who has and will risk the consequences even knowing how much I have to lose. Because I will always above all choose love.
I choose love.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It is a very sad day indeed when anyone loses a parent. This may be due to death, or for some other reason. But it's especially tragic when a young boy loses his father or a young girl her mother. It's a significant loss that resonates through the years, often in ways unseen. It's only natural then that after losing family, you would want to recreate that. Loss of the ability to do that deals an especially cruel blow. (Pinks and baby blues . . . . )
The ability to bring a life into this World, to nurture it and watch it grow. . . is there anything more valuable? I can't think of anything more powerful than that. But what of those who can't create life? What does God intend for them? Creation is the ultimate gift. God giveth and God taketh away. And then, God giveth again.
I had a wonderful childhood.
(At least, that is the part of it that on most days, I choose to remember. There were moments and days I try to forget. . . )
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I lost my mother right after graduation from college, during my first year of medical school. And then things started to change. . .
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I lost my father twice. It seemed like he was gone for much of my childhood. His business. It took him away. Far away. And often on short or no notice. He was often just not there. . . . . . After my mom passed, he disappeared entirely. . . somewhere in Southeast Asia I believe. . . . then he was back. . . . then he was gone again . . . .and so it went . . . .until he passed . . . . .
Nothing is all black or all white. There is grey.
Even though he wasn't always there, he was still my father.
(I have a half-brother I've never met. He lives in Southeast Asia. He may not even know I exist. He is a well-known filmmaker in his Homeland. He creates. I find that extraordinary. . . )
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
At a recent meeting with fellow artists in what is known as a "Critique," I had several pieces of my work reviewed. The feedback from other artists was illuminating and invaluable. Some of that critique focused on the work titled, Shain's Way, and the consensus was that it was beautiful, but unlike the other pieces being reviewed that evening in Los Angeles, this work was on the 'quiet (understated) side' compared to many of the others. Many of the artists in the group were loud and outspoken and seemed to prefer works that spoke with a louder and more forceful voice. One called it a 'masterful contemporary version of an earlier impressionistic era,' - 'Monetesque in a way.' That seemed to more or less be the consensus. And talk quickly turned to other works in the group, like Covaggio in Eden and especially the hauntingly beautiful Winter in Hubei painted in January 2020. (Some of us were paying careful attention to World events even before the Pandemic, so news of the goings on in Hubei Province, where there is a known P4-weapons lab, was a disturbing turn of events indeed. Those of us watching from outside the WH were hoping that those inside knew about Wuhan too and were equally concerned about the man heading the medical/clinical U.S. response.)
I sat quietly listening to the comments, as is 'critique etiquette,' but my mind kept wandering back to the comments made about Shain's Way. I wondered about the comments (not forceful enough? not loud enough? What does it even say, it's like it's just whispering - - - - - - - really?), because it was not at all the way I feel about or view this painting. I realized that they didn't know the story of Shain's Way, and how it came to be.)
* * * * *
My next door neighbor stepped off of the elevator. She hurried past my door towards her apartment at the end of the hallway so quickly that I barely had time to get to my door handle to open it. She was facing the floor. Maybe her dog Daphne needed to go out and she was in a rush. She moved so quickly and I was caught up wrangling my boys, over 200 pounds of pure energy, that I didn't have adequate time to get through my door and step out into the hallway, before she disappeared quickly slipping inside #303. (Sim was quite good at letting me know when anyone was passing by the door, just one of his many incomparable talents! He'd stand at attention and glance back and forth between me and the door, alerting me to the presence of someone on the other side. In this manner of stopping and repeatedly pointing, he was able to draw my attention to many things - everything from casual passersby to delivery men with packages to Earthquakes to dangerous predators - more about that later, Dear Reader. But on that particular morning, it was Shain.)
I was worried about her. So later that evening I stopped by my neighbor's apartment to see how she was doing. The news was not good. She was going to have to undergo a prophylactic hysterectomy to prevent the risk of the cancer spreading. She relayed the news to me matter-of-factly, unflinchingly, in as clinical a tone as one could imagine. I told her that the surgery was "no big deal," having been through it myself at a much younger age and that the important thing --- the only thing right now -- was surviving. I would be there if she needed me. I told her to call me any hour of the day or night and I would be there to help in any way I could. And I told her, "It's okay to cry." And with that, I gave her the space she needed, gave Daphne a quick pat on the head, and headed home with My Boys.
Alone in my apartment I went to the second bedroom and pulled out a large pre-stretched already primed blank canvas. I was overcome with 'that feeling.' The one that when it overwhelms grabs hold of me, forces me to follow its will. I had to paint. Pale Pinks and softer shades of blue. Soft pinks and baby baby blues. That's my palette and I don't even realize why. I'm just grabbing hold of tubes of oils and mixing and prepping and everything I grab is some shade of pink or blue. And then I am overcome with emotion as my hands fly across the substrate and flowers suddenly out-of-nowhere explode onto the canvas without me guiding them. One by one they appear and populate my fields and - - And, and slowly enter calm. And suddenly out of nowhere with no-one around to hear me - except for My Boys, it happened. I buried my face in my hands and then uncontrollably, I began to weep.
* * * * *
Years had passed since my own diagnosis with cancer. And the surgery that makes you feel like you are no longer a woman. I guess I assumed I had moved on. At the time -- back then -- I only wept once. But it was merely a split second in time, because Nottheo wouldn't hear of it! We were on the phone when I started to cry for all I was losing and feeling -- the fear of the cancer itself, the loss of one's womanhood, the catapulting into hormonal changes normally experienced by a woman twice my age (who has already had the gift of children and the joy and love they bring), the concern over the surgery itself, the disruption of any hopes and dreams and plans I had for my future, yes, most importantly the loss of a chance of having a family of my own.
I called Nottheo longing for someone to talk to. Wanting to hear that it would be alright. Hoping for some words of solace. Some small degree of empathy. I could hear all the children playing in the background at the other end of the line. The two oldest, and her toddler and her baby crying for a bottle. Her dog was barking as her oldest chased the dog around the home, and she yelled out admonishments at them to not make a mess. We were on the phone, but she wasn't present. She was caring for six. And then out of nowhere listening to all the children playing at the other end of the line, I began to sob.
"STOP IT!" she rejoined the conversation abruptly to issue the command. "STOP YOUR CRYING RIGHT NOW GOD DAMN IT! STOP IT OR I'M HANGING UP ON YOU!!"
Her words snapped me to attention, and I stifled my voice at the other end of the phone and gasped and choked back on my tears. And then she let me have it,
"Plenty of women can't have children. So what?! You're not the only one. Stop making a big deal out of it. Pull yourself together - and just stop it. I don't want to hear this out of you ever again. Do you understand me? If you cry again, I'm hanging up on you. DEAL WITH IT!"
"Okay," I responded meekly between gasps of choking back tears because I didn't want her to hang up on me. And so I grabbed hold of myself and immediately stopped. And I tried to toughen up. I told myself not to cry. Not ever to cry. And she told me she needed to be tough with me and did it because she cared and because that was what I needed - tough love. Anything less would mean she really didn't care. And every time someone yelled at me or ripped me apart - I would hear those same words -- "you need this" and "you are getting this because we care about you. . ."
I never did grieve my losses. I never did cry again that night. Or that week. Or that month. Or in the years that passed. I just bottled it up inside of me. Grieving was a luxury to which I was not entitled. And that was that.
That is, until I learned that Shain was going to have the same surgery. Honestly, I didn't really know Shain all that well. But we were friendly. She was a neighbor, and she was very nice. And I admired many things about her, not the least of which was her 'stiff upper lip' in the face of any kind of personal adversity. That was a great way to be -- Strong. "Shain's Way" of being. Why couldn't I (really) be more like her? I am, and I am not. I can put on a false front and act tough and be like her. But I am not like Shain. I pretended to be, for Nottheo. I became very good at pretending. Good at hiding my feelings. Good at being clinical. Good at not showing any of the hurt. But inside of me, things were different. And I had to hide it, because it was a weakness to show that side.
* * * * *
Shain's Way was completed in the days that immediately followed (adding and subtracting until it just "felt right" - it was fast though - perhaps I painted it more quickly than any other painting I've ever worked on. It is possible that I channeled it so quickly because it was a painting I had been working on inside of me for a very, very long time. Too long. People say it's quite beautiful. Many art critics have likened it to a contemporary version of Monet. To see it in person, it is truly beautiful. Even I can see that. There's just something about it, and I can't put my finger on exactly what it is -- but there's a feeling you get when you look at it that's undeniably there. So I didn't agree with the critique group. To me Shain's Way feels like both the most understated and yet the most powerful of any work I've ever done. Maybe that's because I now know what painting it meant to me. Strangely, I can't remember all of the actual process of painting it. That's a complete blur as happens often in the creative process. Someone is whispering softly in my ear. I hear a woman's voice, and she is singing a familiar lullaby. I hear my mother - she is reading me poetry. Whitman and Stevenson and Coleridge. And singing songs from musicals. And helping me select a dress for my high school prom. I feel my mother holding my hand in hers as we walk down the streets of New York City in the snow and cold looking in at the magical Christmas windows. And now it is my turn. . . and now it isn't. . . And I remember crying while finishing the painting. I remember that Buster and Sim never left my side, not even for one moment, while I worked on it for several days in a row, without a break. But putting the paint on the brush and touching the canvas - that I do not remember. Strange. But I do know one thing about it - - it is the single painting that to this day continues to exert this strange and totally inexplicable effect upon me. That is because whenever I look at this painting, I have to try hard to keep from crying. And although not as much now as before, I'm still pretty good at hiding the sorrow from that feeling of loss of something that won't ever be...
But in spite of what happened to me, I probably should end by saying that Shain's Way is not about loss. Loss just enabled me to paint it. Shain's Way is about creation. It's about children, because they are our future. At its core, Shain's Way is all about our innermost feelings and desires. It's the reason I paint. Because ultimately, Shain's Way is above all, about love.
(Shain's Way tugs so at my heart strings making it really tough not to cry, but it does. Maybe those feelings so raw escaped that one time and somehow jumped onto the canvas in a last ode to Motherhood. Or maybe something else entirely happened. I can't fully explain it . . . . . Soft baby pinks and even softer baby blues.)
Copyright 2021 Janai-Ami
Provenance:
Group Exhibition, Don O'Melveny Gallery, Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles, California
International Exhibition, Jacob Javits Center, New York City, New York
Temporary Exhibition, Residence of United States Ambassador (Haiti) Helen LaLime
Exhibition, United States Embassy, Maputo, Africa
Private Collection, New York University, New York City, New York
Current: Artist's Private Collection, Los Angeles, California
* Archival Prints Available *
* Original Not Available at this time *
(C) 2021.