{"id":1340,"date":"2012-01-09T11:08:09","date_gmt":"2012-01-09T19:08:09","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/onelife\/?p=1340"},"modified":"2012-01-09T11:08:09","modified_gmt":"2012-01-09T19:08:09","slug":"raised-by-artists","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/?p=1340","title":{"rendered":"RAISED BY ARTISTS"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve often wondered what it would be like. I wasn\u2019t raised by wolves\u2014wolves aren\u2019t innately cruel\u2014but suffice to say, my parents were ill educated and culturally challenged. Normal, far as I knew. Far from a priority, art was not even a concept in our home. A queen of blarney, my mother weaved elaborate tales and collected \u201cornaments.\u201d Skilled with his hands, my jack-of-all-trades father hawked carvings while stationed in the Yukon with the RAF, identifying himself as a woodworker or carpenter. I think we all harbour an inner artist. Still, I was decidedly the family freak. Determined to honour my writing, to finally take it seriously, find discipline and seek inspiration, I\u2019ve been reading biographies and watching documentaries, most recently C. Scott Willis\u2019 The Woodmans<\/a>, about a shining young photographer named Francesca Woodman, who committed suicide in 1981 by jumping off a building. Interestingly, that\u2019s right around the time I was living in New York, starting out as a musician. An artist. It was brutal. I got out, made my way back to the west coast. And in an aside, interesting, isn’t it, the similarity in our poses above, the choice of iconography, me with my acorns, Francesca with her birch bark.<\/p>\n

Anyway, it seems Francesca was born to it. Art. Being an artist. And if I\u2019d met her, would have been envious. Her parents George and Betty were visual artists who took their children to Europe every year, summering in Italy. They described museum excursions, giving Francesca and her brother Charles notebooks, instructing them to make their own observations, which also got the kids out of their hair. Things said about Francesca, slightly paraphrased: \u2018Provocative by nature. Talented. Driven, ambitious. She came knowing, (to art school) she was a photographer. Precocious. Sophisticated concepts. Wore her skin inside out. Open sexuality. Liked fashion, being feminine, unlike her hippie-ish mother. Open with her needs. Had a boyfriend who didn\u2019t treat her well. She was demanding. Fragile interior, which caused her to make beautiful pictures. (She experimented with video too.) Vulnerable. Fascinating, obviously. It\u2019s risky, being an artist, said her father, still haunted. Francesca was always aloof, melancholy.\u2019 She became despondent after career frustrations and a failed relationship. No one knew what to do about it I suppose. And people do keep such things secret. Depression. Its depths.<\/p>\n

Did growing up in such a rareified atmosphere provide Francesca what she needed? I think she must have worried about being a failure, holding herself up in relief against the powerful personalities of family members, and desperate to compete, win, triumph, made the ultimate sacrifice. Took her life. Made her mark. Indelibly. Today she is revered among students, young aspiring artists, depicted and documented. Legendary. Is that how much being an artist means? Exacts? Was it worth it? Is it worth it, I wonder? And, or perhaps Francesca was simply, clinically depressed, mentally ill. Disturbed. No logic or reason, motive involved in other words.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m sure they did the best they could, my parents. Ditto the Woodmans, and though the film is largely about finding redemption though art, my question is, how do we become tough enough to be an artist, or whatever it is we\u2019re meant to be? If we fail to learn critical skills as children, how can we possibly navigate society, survive in the wild? I worry about my boy. Aside from autism interventions, I\u2019ve taught life skills and encouraged him to hone his talents. I think it\u2019s important to be able to cook, clean, balance a checkbook, drive a car, swim, and protect oneself. Fight, if cornered. He ignores me. My concerns. He is a teenager. His game heroes may incite him to work out, bulk up at last, but his family has provided the weights, the boxing gear and all the room he needs to think, dream, imagine and aspire. Am I making things too easy? Did deprivation give me strength? Desire? Having to endure; did it provide me with the power to abide? A friend from a privileged background once told me he\u2019d never known sorrow until thrown into a foreign prison for drug smuggling. He’d felt invincible, was a fool. After hanging out with a bevy of Beverly Hills brats, I learned how unhappy and confused most of them were, that money didn\u2019t ensure smarts or resiliency. Abuse. Did it make me savvy? It turns some people into killers. I see no upside. Trauma causes severe emotional damage, hinders development. I long resented my folks for the time I had to spend recovering. Was it all a waste or did it provide, however perversely, an advantage?<\/p>\n

And is that all that matters? Mere survival? Perhaps quality of life is primary, different than providing our children an idyll. We shield while working to equip them with sound judgment, reasoning ability and strength of character. Regardless, we all must play the proverbial hand we\u2019re dealt. Poor Francesca. Poor me. No matter who, or what spawned us, ultimately, we must raise ourselves.<\/p>\n

And I\u2019m going to post this poem once more, as it is pertinent.<\/p>\n

Island Boy<\/strong><\/p>\n

Is it cold enough for hot chocolate?
\nYes. We\u2019re baking cookies. Come and help.<\/p>\n

The kid that insists on blueberry candy canes
\nwould rather drive through virtual streets of San Francisco<\/p>\n

or James Bond-jet pack
\nover snow drifts than join us in the kitchen.<\/p>\n

He takes no heed of twilight until the sun
\nsets on his screen. He has heat. Love. Pockets<\/p>\n

of pizza. All the bare necessities. He is beyond
\nbaking, toy aprons or pretending<\/p>\n

to wash the dishes, toddler hands lost
\ninside flock-lined rubber gloves.<\/p>\n

Helmeted in his racing seat
\nbefore the steering wheel, our boy laughs<\/p>\n

at vintage Looney Tunes, unaware
\ntheir blackface is racist, Porky Pig\u2019s stuttering<\/p>\n

politically incorrect. Where will he find ferocity
\nknowing nothing but canned aggression, Disney warfare?<\/p>\n

Molokai, lost-in-time island, where he refused
\nsnorkeling, to wet his head. He will jump<\/p>\n

on a trampoline. Will not punch a bag.
\nKick the can. Form a fist.<\/p>\n

He will sink a 32-foot putt
\nbut can he take a hit? No worries.<\/p>\n

He\u2019s happy biding island time. Happy
\nits moat foils the bears, bores, kindergarten foes.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I\u2019ve often wondered what it would be like. I wasn\u2019t raised by wolves\u2014wolves aren\u2019t innately cruel\u2014but suffice to say, my parents were ill educated and culturally challenged. Normal, far as I knew. Far from a priority, art was not even a concept in our home. A queen of blarney, my mother weaved elaborate tales and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[10],"tags":[131,149,217,322],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1340"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1340"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1340\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1340"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1340"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1340"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}