My mother’s artwork surrounds me, and sometimes it is completely light-filled, supportive, energizing. Other days, like yesterday, I feel weighed down by the undone, uncataloged, unsung, uncopyrighted, unfiled presentness of it all. She somehow worked through this — the unfinished work sat at the sides of her studio, or boxed in the closet above the stairs. I can do the same, but . . . I need a cheering section, a deadline, and a stronger sense that this really matters, that it’s not going to cost me everything. Or, is that the definition of art worth doing?
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