The Art of Parenting

Growing up as the child of an artist, and now being an artist myself with my very own bundle of mouthy grade-schooler has given me a unique perspective on the job of parenting as a person who makes their living selling paintings. It has brought many sobering realizations, such as the fact that the markers I used to make the poster for my geography project in fifth grade cost six dollars apiece. Above all, I now have a greater appreciation for the work my father did, and for his putting up with my endless requests to draw Mickey Mouse.

The fact that my dad was an artist meant to me that he was available 24/7 to do anything requested of him, because after all, it's not as if he had a real job. It's little wonder that us kids were banned from the studio as soon as he could afford to have a studio. Not that such bannings were particularly effective. If I didn't need my dad to drive me to the roller rink, or give me money and drop me off at the mall, then I needed to fetch the shoe box full of six dollar markers and use the opaque projector for my geography project. There was always something.

I understand now how difficult it is to concentrate on a painting when there is a slinky moving up and down constantly in the corner of your eye. I also understand why my dad was frequently awake until 6 in the morning working on a painting. And I quickly learned that the trade-off for having 8 or 9 hours of uninterrupted work time is 8 or 9 hours of interrupted sleep time. One expects to be awakened frequently for feedings when one has a newborn child, but when that child is old enough to make her own sandwiches it can make a person testy.

In the beginning my daughter didn't quite understand why I would want to sell my paintings, and she thought that I should keep all of them. Eventually she understood the connection between more sold paintings and more stuff for her. There is a certain advantage to having a person in your home who is excited to see whichever painting you have finished most recently, and who likes everything you paint no matter how terrible you think it is. But every good thing must come to and end, and after some more time the situation of being a captive audience brought out my daughter's blossoming inner art critic. Comments changed from, "Wow! I think you should keep that one and hang it up in my room." to the less enthusiastic, "I think you should have used more turquoise in it. And I don't know why you put that eggplant there. I won't like it until you change it."

I suppose I'll take advantage of the guaranteed feedback for now, since if she is anything like me she will move away from home one day, lose nearly all interest in her parent's artistic progression, and start asking questions like "When did you start painting boats?" three years after they started painting boats. Perhaps some day she will become an artist herself with a child of her own, and she too will know the pleasure of having an expensive paintbrush loaded with varnish and left out to dry.