Christmas and Easter, but especially Christmas looms as a threat to me each year. The faithful are sincerely pious over these two high holy days, but in the United States, they are most significant to kids. Like anybody, I work hard to keep my family safe, fed, clothed, sheltered and educated. Of course. Don’t all sane people do this? Yet, on a single day, occurring like clockwork every year, I fear everything I’ve accomplished could be wiped out if I can not manage the prerequisite show of excess on December 25th. I know for a fact, my mom had trouble with this show. Yet, she made it happen in some fashion—every time. Even now, Mom is consistent. Long retired, she sends all of us, and our children—her grandchildren—something. Every year. Now, it’s my turn. I will admit now that I have failed.

I have had trouble with this season for many years. My mom raised my sisters and I to believe that if we are good and righteous, everything would work out. We went to church. We read and memorized bible verses. We sang in the choir. For one while, we WERE the choir. We prayed without ceasing. Still, as the oldest, I would watch my mom struggle, year after year to keep us safe, fed, clothed, sheltered and educated. Somehow she got through this. While we have never been homeless, we are not without scars from this struggle. My mom managed—alone in a world more hostile to her than I can imagine today—by dedicating herself to a faith that would consume her completely. My life, through her love, despite the improbability of her dreams, is the result of a miraculous test of will. She will probably never understand this about me; I understand. I understand because I have listened and watched and followed her—without becoming her—all of my life. I have immortalized this struggle in ChimeraBlues.

Between 1969 and 1972, the three of us were separated from our mom. Not unlike the children of many black families back then, we went south, without mom, to live with our grandmother and attend school. Day care, still a huge problem for many families today, was non existent back then. My mother could find no one to look after the three of us while she worked. As I mentioned, I was the oldest. I was eight. “Hide No Seek”, one of the paintings of ChimeraBlues, combines a couple of the games my sisters and I played during that time. Today’s electronic diversions were not available then. We had library books and our imaginations to distract us from boredom, or loneliness, or grief. Of course, Mom would visit us. She’d send clothing. She’d call us occasionally on the phone, which happened to be a party-line. She’d even transport Christmas, the entire colorful shiny sweet show to the three of us in rural Mississippi in the late 1960’s — early 70’s.

Forty years later, my oldest son is twenty-four years old, my oldest daughter is twenty-two. I was married to their father for just over ten years. There were difficult times, as with many families—especially the ones that break. Yet neither of my oldest children have ever been through a Christmas season without receiving something. Not before, nor since the divorce. I still have one of my son’s first Christmas presents. It’s a silly looking purple brontosaurus. When you push the yellow bird sitting on his back, the brontosaurus skitters across the floor. After the divorce, I remember taking bags of gifts to their father’s house to make sure the Christmas morning magic in his house would be as special as it was in mine. It didn’t matter where they were—his house or mine. Like all decent parents, we needed to make sure they knew they were loved. And we did.

My youngest daughter, my third child, is now fourteen. She’s old enough to know that I haven’t found a job yet. Her father sent money for her Christmas present but I used it to cover part of the rent. She knows. She’s smart. So, we have talked about this. Still, while I know there are thousands of us without work this holiday season, I had hoped against hope that something would happen to change this situation. Didn’t happen. I have nothing to give her. Or so I thought.

Yesterday, I walked out into the snow. “Safe bet, I thought,” no one else is out so no one can see my face, my eyes, my frustration.” Unfortunately, even though I know better, being out of work, no matter the season, makes me feel worthless. I am literally talking to myself saying things like, “You will not cry. Crying will not help.” One minute I am going over every stupid or otherwise decision that led to this, wondering why I am once again, talented, hard-working and literally out in the cold. The next minute I am doing what I have always done with the big three: fear, anger and—the most dangerous—despair. I made something of it.

Made entirely of images I took with my one shot camera—a newfangled digital distraction—I gave my daughter an animated card at midnight. It contains, among other things, the best Christmas tree I could afford. After lots of tears and hugs I sent copies to everybody I love who happens to have an email address. Then I tried to get some sleep. Today, I made two pies: one savory, one sweet. Zoe—her name means life—ate desert first. She hung out with her older brother. She had two helpings of homemade chicken pot pie. This year’s gift-card from Mom came in very handy. Zoe will probably not forget this year. It sucks. I think she is still happy though. I KNOW she knows I love her. I really have given her my best. Pretty much the way my mom did. I just hope she doesn’t internalize my struggle. That could wipe out everything I’ve accomplished.

This is Zoe’s Snow Card

“Tis the season to be thoughtful…
I’m thinking I spend a lot of time missing you.
I’m not always where I want to be at all.
Thankfully I’m an artist. Which means…
I spend a lot of time looking at boring stuff.
Doesn’t matter. Even when I can’t see you.
When I see something cool…
Or pretty…
I can’t wait to show you.
And that’s how I know…
I love you.
Every day.
Happy Season of Love
oooxxxoo
Always thinking about you,

tjay

Frozen. Majestic. It’s not really still. Its continuous movement creates new forms and patterns from everything around it. Including me. Now it’s all serious and serene. Not at all like it was several weeks ago. Few traces of the frolicking, splashing, aqua cerulean beach personality are left. The beach is frozen. Thicker, slower, freezing waves have made what appears to be a tribunal of the pillars that mark the swimmers territory. Today, my approach was also slow and careful—respectful. Gazing at this I don’t want to swim anyway. I want to work. I want to gather the strength and purpose to create like this. This lake is never tired. It never stops.

Everything is frozen. Cold. Waiting. Maybe on the other side of the holiday(s), things will begin to thaw. For those of us in limbo, it can be hard to find things to be cheerful about despite the season. Here—while walking around in the cold, I found some holiday colors that didn’t seem to mind my mood. My life goes on in spite of what I’ve made of it, or what it’s made of me. Life. I’ve still got it. So, I’ll treat it warmly, with respect, especially now when I don’t have anything else to give. Just me. That’s the point anyway, right? Cheers and love.

A couple months ago, I sold this to pay the rent. Ironic. Friends wrote a check directly to the landlord. This is the painting they chose. Ironic because, years ago, painting this was a turning point for me. A wagon full of old things cannot hold much else. This wagon is empty. Emptied in preparation to be filled with new life, new experiences, new relationships—a future. It’s a painting of independence and responsibility, of taking control. It is optimistic and triumphant. The past is put in its place.

Turns out the future’s pretty bumpy too. I took a chance and missed. A new job didn’t happen and the old job didn’t fit. I’ve been unemployed since August. That’s when I painted three new canvases and started this blog. In the long-run, this bump could turn out to be a good thing. I’m painting again. That’s good, right? In the meantime—the short-run, I hope—it feels like I got the short end of the stick.

It hurt to sell this painting. It hurt to be in the situation that made this necessary. My paintings are like family to me. This is the first to leave home. This is great, except…it did not leave me in a triumphant-new-life-without-old-pain sort of way. I was not triumphant. Maybe I shouldn’t have been, but I was ashamed. Yet, I was grateful also. Grateful because when I allowed my friends to see that I needed help—they did. Sure, I’d have done the same for them. Friends support each other all the time, right? It’s just hard to allow others to support me. Silly.

Here’s what’s special about the way in which I was supported. This is important. There was no shame in it really. My friends covered for me when my faith in myself had worn dangerously thin. Their love and support—a vote of confidence actually—made me stronger. I want them to be proud of me, to have their faith in me rewarded, over and over again. To let this mistake change me, frighten me into giving up on myself would be an insult to them. This is huge. So, this girl in the yellow dress with the empty red wagon now lives proudly in the home of my friends. Their faith in me, and in my work, now lives strongly in me. I’m using it to beat down the fear. Amazing.

Almost fifteen years ago, a friend, who happened to be a reporter, asked me a series of questions, as if for an interview. Here’s my explanation of a couple of the paintings that were already on the walls as we spoke.

This is one of my favorites. My sisters and I were dressed exactly alike for most of our lives. This painting doesn’t necessarily show exactly what we looked like in a photographic representation. But they look like what our attitudes and personalities were like to the point where each of my sisters can stand here and they will say, unequivocally, “That’s not me,” and then point directly at the one that is her.

In this painting, there is a red chair. These three girls are stuck in this red chair and they look like they pretty much can’t get out of there, and they are dressed very nicely as if they were going to have a photo taken.

They have these little socks and shoes that are practically nailed to the floor.  And there it is, the arch thing, which acts as a wall. They are over-protected. There is danger because there is no back wall on that room. Even the fence is falling down. There is a cityscape behind them that doesn’t look necessarily warm and inviting.

There is a bush in bloom beyond that wall. There is blackness that is falling from that bush onto a chair. There are three chairs and a table also in the background—each of those chairs representing one of those girls. Two chairs are facing each other. The sisters are paired off, and I sort of get isolated, even in my own family structure. The chair all the way at the back represents me.

The petals are used to talk about a situation that happened that wasn’t necessarily a great thing. The chair even casts an ominous shadow. Again, I have taken an ugly situation and made it beautiful. I’ve talked about it, and put it down, without hitting people over the head with it. I’m not a sensationalist. I am saying, “Here is what happened.”

There is usually something green in my paintings. This one is no different. There is a live plant in this one. I don’t know why I do that except that I think it is possible for a plant to grow, despite hardship and life’s difficulties. I think there are still ways to make a life.

This one here . . . We did sing when we were young. We are all dressed actually alike and we are different. This time there isn’t a green plant. There is a candle in this painting that is basically representing the hope. There is the over-protection. There is still no back wall in this room.

I have three women in this painting. They are standing so close together they cast one shadow. I am basically saying these people are of the same mind.

To see more paintings and the stories that accompany them, please click through and explore ChimeraBlues. For new paintings, some of them posted in progress, click The New Painting tab here on The Blues.

Almost fifteen years ago, a friend, who happened to be a reporter, asked me a series of questions, as if for an interview. It’s strange to read this now. Anyway, here are some of the answers I gave.

WHO AM I?

I see myself as a person, a human being, a light, a voice. I see myself as what every human being is—separate and trying to connect, trying to communicate.

I’m not a compartmentalized person, so I live in my world, and my communication may come out in any number of ways. I write. I paint. I sing. I don’t consider myself a singer, a writer, a painter. I consider myself a human being, trying to communicate, trying to—you know, throw things up and say,  “Look—here I am. What do you think? This is what I saw; did you see this?”

If I’m lucky enough to find people who have seen some of the things I’ve seen and maybe even interpret them in similar ways, then I’m not alone as I was before and I’m not afraid as I was before.

So much of my energy comes because I’ve been afraid for so long, because life is scary, especially as somebody who is completely separate. We all are, but we don’t all have to pay as acute attention to that.

It seems that people who become artists, for lack of a better label, are people who pay more attention, for whatever reason.

DO I HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BE AN ARTIST?

I’m a woman, a mother first, an artist second. Does that mean that I don’t have what it takes to make it?

I think society asks you to give up too much to make it in almost any arena—whether I could bounce a basketball better than anybody, or it I were someone who understood the dynamics of supply and demand, as in economics.

It seems society is constantly asking you to become a ‘thing’, separate from humanness in order to make it.  So you leave your family. You leave part of yourself to do that. You cannot be someone who loves and is committed to other people in order to make it in any arena in the world right now.

It’s considered okay for somebody like my father who I saw, alive, for the last time when I was three years old. He left, not only my family, but also apparently five or six other families. It’s perfectly acceptable for him though, because he is a man and he could point to all kinds of examples of why this is worthwhile. He is an artist. He is a performer. And there is absolutely no doubt in his mind of that.

For me, I’m first and foremost a woman. I am somebody’s mother. I’m somebody’s daughter. I am connected to people I cannot desert and cannot justify, with the sanctity of my art, deserting. So, it is part of my tradition, from growing up in the South, from being Black, and maybe for some people, it doesn’t matter, but it does to me.

LINGERING DOUBTS ABOUT MY ART

I forgot who said it—a very wise guy way back—that which is in you that cannot be destroyed is yours to keep.  I almost—actually did deny it. In despair I’d think, “You’re not an artist. Maybe you don’t have it.” I tried to live normally. “You’re not going to do this. You can’t.”

Then it was that I couldn’t NOT do it, you know what I mean? It was like, “There it is, anyway, in you. You keep doing it.” So, I decided not to try and impress anyone. Even to consider whether they would have to be shown, but just to take it one day at a time, and patiently, honestly, put down what had to be put down, as a person, and that’s what my paintings are.

It’s where I go. I know I shouldn’t have been out there yesterday. Minutes before, rain poured. Stopped now, the morning darkness still said no. Black and gray, green and gold, all swirling as if in a blender outside my window. No, but the wind said yes. Yes, it’s not raining now. Yes, the wind is high. Yes, there will be waves. You love to see it all stirred up and restless like yourself. There will be waves. I went. The wind was so strong I had to fight just to be there, Just like everywhere else I am. I’m a fighter. Quiet, but I fight. Maybe I wouldn’t have to fight so much if I weren’t so quiet. If I would crash and roar like the waves, maybe trouble would stay back. I went. Straight to the edge. No crashing waves. No roaring. The waves, flattened by the winds, reversed, moved away from the shore, away from the rocks, away from me. The waves were quiet. Is this the calm or the storm?