I have always been a hard, hard worker. I haven’t always put myself into my work. As I progressed in my vocation, I did. I put all that is me into my work. On hindsight, this may not have been a good idea…
At any rate I was very impressed with my work. The detail, the craftsmanship, the beauty, and the strength amazed even me. My son was not so impressed. Being my child he had an eye for beauty and skill. However, because he did not help me on this project his eye was more critical.
I had to admit that he was correct. This work had flaws, it was not perfect. Sometimes a work can only be as perfect as the materials you make it from. This work had all of me in it however, the materials I used were organic yet volatile. At the time this was me, myself, and I: Complex. I thought this was good. I saw myself in my work. I accepted my work for what it was just as I accepted myself.
This was hard for my son to accept. In my son’s eyes I was magnificent I suppose. He felt that my work did not reflect who I was to him. His definition of me was completely “better” in every way. So, he rejected this work of mine. In doing so he rejected me.
He went further. At every opportunity he would destroy my work. In doing so he was destroying parts of me. He endeavored to destroy the parts of me that he would not accept. I understood his despair, I did. There comes a time when every child must see their parent as they truly are. Some children accept that their parent is flawed while others never will.
They need this delusion to maintain a reality their mind can handle. It’s not hatred of the parent but survival of the child. They need these high ideals and standards to encourage themselves to go on in a volatile world. We need children like this.
They are the artists among us. The singers, dancers, painters, writers, composers… When you harm them whole worlds blink out of existence and you reap the whirlwinds of destruction.
And so, my son the artist still denigrates works of mine that he finds inferior. It is a source of communication, conversation, and bonding between us. I have even gotten into the habit of purposely making works that will repulse him. He’s caught on to my machinations though. Still it’s an opportunity for us to spend time together listening to each other as we both discuss our works together.
I have never fought him. I accepted him as he is. He is my son.
My son has never fought me. He has come to accept me as I AM. I am his Mother.
We have grown to respect each other’s work.
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