Painting was a way that I could express the pain over my infertility

I come from a long line of artists. Painters, on my mother's side. My grandfather was an artist, as was his mother, and two of his daughters - my aunts. (My cousin, Charles Reid, drew the header for my blog above. Pen & ink first, and then he added color and digitized it.) Although my mother is not an artist, she has a gift of perceiving skin tones and seeing the nuances and variances in color. There is no blue, green, red or orange. She sees magenta and crimson...scarlet lake and blue geranium. My sister has inherited the family gift. Her eldest son appears to have the gift as well, which brings it to 5 generations. That I know of.

At a young age I realized I didn't have the family gift. Not only did I not have the family gift, but it appeared that I was much less gifted than the average student in art class. There was something about looking at an object and drawing it that I couldn't manage. Here is a bowl of fruit, here is a vase, here is... Art was intimidating. Daunting. The family gift was not dropped off at my door. Although my mom always embraced whatever I did. She was a supportive mom.

Nine years ago, after being married to my husband E for a few years, we appeared to be infertile. Thus began a cycle of hormone shots, inseminations, and then moving on to IVF (in vitro fertilization.) It was a gut wrenching process and every month my cycle continued to come with a vengeance.

One day, out of the blue, I felt driven to go into an art supply store. I chose a handful of acrylics, some paint thinner, brushes, and a large pad of canvas paper. At the time, we were living in a tiny guest house on the west side of Los Angeles. I set up a make shift easel with a piece of plywood, and I used clothes pins to hold the paper in place. When my brush first splashed color across the paper it felt right. I found myself wanting to paint often. And when I did paint, I lost myself... Coming back to earth 2 or 3 hours later.

Painting became a way that I could express the pain over my infertility. And, where I could escape from it all...

Soon a theme emerged. Having never been able to paint or draw anything that was recognizable, it appeared that I could do it! I could paint... vaginas. Quite ironic, really.

This shows the utter emptiness of the interior... Unending. Forever barren.


In this painting, there is so much pain that the edges of the torso and legs have burst into flames. The blood reflects the loss of hope. The amount of blood symbolizing the many cycles that have gone before.

Below is a painting in which my chaotic thoughts poured forth... You have an image of an angel in the bottom left, symbolizing hope. Then above the angel, an embryo in a pure womb. Lots of blood. Breasts showing the feminine form, with the black hand prints of darkness making their mark.

I'm not sure when, in my cathartic painting phase, I did this painting or the one at the top in pinks and golds, but I like them. Their colors speak to me, still.


I painted for about six months. Suddenly, my need to paint just...stopped. I've never shared these paintings with my family.

It was to be four more years before I became a mother.

Looking at these paintings, touching them, feeling the layers of paint beneath my fingers, I miss it. Perhaps I'll paint again. Thank you Memarie Lane for your curiosity about my painting.


****Note: It's NaBloPoMo, what would you like me to write about?

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