The Art of Motherhood: A Gallery Walk

"Sometimes, as the gallery curator, I do not know where my house ends and where I begin."

Today I am honored to share this guest post from Breann of

Just Write Mama

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Breeann Adam is a writer and former special education teacher. She is a mother to many through foster care, adoption, and biology. As a child, she wrote tiny books by hand and snuck them onto her elementary school’s library shelves. She is currently writing her first (actual) book in the midst of nap times and late nights.

Breann of Just Write Mama

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Art: the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination - Oxford Languages

Come, see. Walk into my house, and let me show you what I have created. Or rather, see what has created me.

Welcome. Before I tell you about my gallery, the first thing to know is this gallery is a group exhibition. It’s not a traditional art gallery; in fact, it’s most often called a “home.” But, it’s full of art and evidence of life. Many artists, both young and old, have teamed up to produce the eclectic and genre-defying art you will witness here. Some displays are temporary; others are permanent. It is all a reflection of motherhood. I am only your guide and curator.

Since I became a mother, my house as art is best described as a fingerpainting. It is colors and mess and abstract blobs. It is clashing, overstimulating, and dynamic. Noise and energy and haphazard decisions may overwhelm both artists-in-residence and visitors alike.

Sometimes, as the gallery curator, I do not know where my house ends and where I begin. I will try to show you around while remembering I am a separate being. I do not always succeed, but I hope soon you will understand why. Please excuse me as I try to order my thoughts; I am sometimes absorbed in the laundry baskets like they are quicksand. I am sometimes drowning in the basin of dirty bottles. The opaque, soapy milk bubbles gurgle and swirl like a potion in a witch’s cauldron. The heavy shelves of baby board books threaten to topple down atop me. I am in constant danger of being swallowed by the mouth of the insatiable home, the one hungry for me at all hours of the day and night.

The floor we will walk through together is the gallery's main floor. This floor contains the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Most art is created, preserved, and displayed in these rooms. Mostly, it is contemporary, abstract, and modern art.

Notice the dishes piled high in the stainless steel sink, a la Leaning Tower of Pisa-inspired. Look closely within the tower to notice its colorful components: plastic primary-colored plates smeared with congealed ketchup; half-full cups of milk; silicone baby bibs streaked with browning avocado smears; orange-red spaghetti sauce speckles the tower from top to bottom.

On the adjacent counter, the light brown coffee stains dance on the rim of the off-white mugs. A fresh new addition is not far from the dish tower piece: a clear vase of magenta and baby pink carnations decorating the sticky oak dining table. They were a gift from my husband when he brought the groceries home a few days ago. My head, body, and cells strain to contain the explosion of noise, colors, and smells.

Walking past the Leaning Tower of Dishes and sticky dining room table, you will see my husband’s clean clothes draped over the back of the hand-me-down faded couch in the living room; this couch may be called “vintage” or “retro” in some galleries. In our gallery, we call it “old.” Pink, blue, and red checkered button-up shirts hang loosely over the couch, along with olive green and navy blue quarter-zip fleeces. T-shirts that used to be midnight black but have faded to slate gray with so many washes are plentiful. A large purple popcorn bowl, crimson red apple rind, and an empty shiny can of sparkling flavored water sit neglected on the end table near the overstuffed brown armchair.

My teenager’s socks, the ones that were white at one time, limply lay in a small heap on the crumb-covered carpet. Every night, these socks end up here, peeled off after a day of walking through a three-story brick school building. Near the socks, one hot pink clothing hanger has lived on the floor for days, nestled against the dog’s brown lump of a bed. A video game controller is upside down in the middle of the room near three plaid couch pillows that are rarely on the couch.

A few feet from the pillows, still on the floor, are one lavender-striped baby pacifier and one tiny tan baby sock. Dad’s maroon baseball cap. My own black tangled laptop charger and yellow legal pad. A long curled green ribbon the baby loves to play with for no understandable reason at all. My middle child’s rainbow-colored Lego animals.

The photography exhibit in this room is one of my favorites, one I have been the lead curator on forever. The frames on the wall are cheap: fake wood, mismatched, box store frames. Pay them no mind. They hold the most priceless art in the gallery. Do you see those beautiful faces? My husband and I are foster, adoptive, and biological parents. And those beautiful faces? Those are the faces of children we have loved for a day, a week, or forever.

The picture in the center is of a girl named Cici. Cici has a pink and white striped petunia behind her ear and the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. Two pictures over to the right, Lu wears a fluffy tutu tulle skirt. Two photos to the left, Buddy screams with delight as his playground swing takes him higher, higher, higher. Stop, look at them a moment longer. They were going through hell and high water, but they were children. Children who felt joy in these moments despite it all. Can you feel it, too?

Strewn throughout all rooms of the gallery are pieces by the youngest of artists: acrylics, clay sculptures, pencil sketchings, plastic cups holding wilted dandelions, and crayon markings on paper scraps. These pieces are changed out frequently and may be seen taped to the wall or the fridge. Some lay on the floor or are crumpled in the bottom of a backpack. That page ripped out from a coloring book that says in black Sharpie, “I luve you, Mom,” was completed last week. A few pieces are permanent creations done directly onto the walls themselves. Young artists are always so generous with their art; it’s one of my favorite traits in a young artist.

You may or may not see performance art while you are here: dance, song, spontaneous yelling, some crying, and dogs barking. The performance art may directly engage you as a visitor. Do not be afraid. It can initially feel jarring, but I promise you will feel alive. There is no watching or observing; there is only doing and feeling.

As the curator, I also maintain quite an extensive exhibit in my mind called Invisible Art. You may not be familiar with Invisible Art if you are not a mother. This exhibit is the creative endeavor of managing the artists’ schedules and events, shopping for every one of their meals, remembering birthdays and special events, planning holidays, meeting emotional needs, buying the young artists’ supplies, and a countless host of other tasks required to keep the gallery operational and functioning. You won’t see this exhibit today. It’s not intriguing to a visitor, but it takes up much of my curating time. It’s not visually stunning, but believe me, it is an intensely creative art. I tell you this because it explains the state of the other exhibits so well.

You will notice I have very little art in the still-life category. Formerly, before I became a mother, there was. My house as art was a still-life portrait. It was a picture of inanimate objects. It was light, shadow, and shape. It was furniture, appliances, a sparse white calendar with only frivolous weekend plans, and unmoving knick-knacks. It was unspilled drinks, smooth countertops, an empty sink, and clear floors. You would have noticed the quiet calm. You would have heard your own thoughts.

There was nothing wrong with my former gallery. I just outgrew it. It no longer reflected who I was as a curator, mother, preserver, and maker of history and life. It was the gallery belonging to a different version of myself. I have since moved on, for now. One day, when I am older, I will have my tidy and quiet still-life gallery again. I expect I will rather enjoy it.

But I already know I will reflect on my days curating the Art of Motherhood, a gallery always under construction, with the fiercest love, nostalgia, and longing. The messiest of days, after all–these very days–are some of my most creative.

Remember to visit

Breeann Adam

at

Just Write Mama

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