In my mid thirties I participated in an Open Studio sponsored by the Washington Project for the Arts. I set up an installation of open black boxes and masks. The masks were casts I made of my face upon which I smeared mud, over which I applied paint. The result was haunting and reminiscent of the Holocaust. Mom understood how important art was to me, but the images and their meaning eluded her. When she visited the studio, she shared her reaction: “My friends and I look at this and say ‘Blech! What’s the matter with her!’”
    
My soul longed for my mother to “get me.” She didn’t. But I realize now that just as my mother didn’t “get” me, I was guilty of the same toward her. The shadow side of life was not important to her, only the light and lovely. Just as Mom was unable to tolerate any of my unlovely behavior, she was unable to relate to any of my unlovely artwork. But I needed her to love and accept the dirty,  dark side of me as well as the lovely me. My soul demanded she value all of me: my heart buried the pain each and every time I realized she didn’t. The fact that her outlook on life was totally different from mine eluded me. True communication about our feelings eluded us both.  

SUMMARY OF PART 3

My muse, the female torso, established during graduate school was now ready to be developed. Torsos in different poses and media were explored — upside down, pregnant, double, abstracted as birds, painted in black and white, color, collaged and torn in half. Ocassionally, non representational works emerged. Inspired by a dream, masks occupied a prominent amount of creative energy for a number of years.  A full torso of a model was cast and I covered it with mud. Unfortunately it didn't survive.

Exhibiting, as well as creating was also a part of my agenda. Searching for places to exhibit, submitting applications, and facing a multitude of rejections was dispiriting. And when I finally was accepted for a show, the mountain of work and expense associated with exhibiting was draining and for the most part, emotionally unfulling. By the time I was in my mid thirties, I became frustrated and disallunsioned with trying to make a career as an artist. Waitressing to support my myself and the occassional exhibitions were not satisfying. It didn't matter how much I loved creating, supporting myself as an artist was too difficult and lonely to maintain. Another temptation was calling. In 1987, I browsed the singles ad in the Jewish Weekly and there it was. I bit.

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