February 17, 2009

The Divided Heart: Art and Motherhood by Rachel Power

I still don’t know squat about sleep training, for instance, but ever since I got pregnant, I’ve been obsessed with books documenting women’s ambivalence towards motherhood. Anne Enright’s Making Babies and Rachel Cusk’s A Life’s Work (in addition to the mother who lives on the other side of my garret wall and is screaming at her daughter as I write this) have served to steel my expectations for the imminent adventure ahead. Which is sort of strange because my feelings about motherhood aren’t even ambivalent yet, but from the mother on the other side of the wall in particular, I’ve got a sense of what’s coming, and I want to know how my life will change, if there’s hope of retaining any of it.

It’s a strange, complicated ambivalence (as opposed to, say, the childless Lionel Shriver’s) that strikes women about motherhood when they actually happen to be mothers. Which is why I maintain one has to be a brilliant writer to capture it properly– all the love that’s there, even with the reservations, the powerful urge to protect still accompanying any urges to run the other way. Rachel Power’s title articulating this ambivalence: The Divided Heart; “a split self; the fear that succeed at one means to fail at the other.”

Power’s book The Divided Heart: Art and Motherhood is a series of conversations with prominent Australian woman artists about the effect of motherhood upon their art. Part of the book’s appeal in its homeland, I imagine, perhaps being insight into such notable lives, though I lack that context from where I read, as Power’s subjects are unfamiliar to me. But she does such a fine job of depicting their remarkable lives– the actresses, writers, painters, dancers among them–, as well as their back stories and very own voices that to get to know of these figures was one of the book’s decided perqs.

These women’s lives are remarkable, as I said, but their experiences are somewhat universal to all mothers, especially all working mothers– that they’re taken less seriously in their fields because they have children, are hindered from progressing as men (even fathers) can, their balancing “the second shift”, their guilt about being absent from their children’s lives. And yet there is something particular to the experience of the artist-mother, which Power well conveys. That pursuing art is often seen as an indulgence of sorts, and it doesn’t bring home much financial benefit. The blurred borders between the studio and the home-front, which bring forth constant interruptions. That to give up art would be to give up a passion, part of one’s heart, however divided.

The book’s conversational style is delicious, shaped with Rachel Power’s eye for fabulous prose, and the different perspectives enthused by her subjects make for a perfect mosaic of ideas and opinions. Which brings forth balance– none of this is to be taken as dogma, but instead considered, weighed and evaluated. So the bad of artist-mothering– certainly overwhelming at times– is also countered with the good. These women’s lives, however harried, still inspiring in that they get on at all. That artist-mothering is possible, even at a price.

These engaging interviews are also worthwhile for their range and detail– for example, the various effects of pregnancy and childbirth upon the body of a ballerina, upon an opera singer’s vocal range. That motherhood is not a vacuum and the rest of life creeps in as well– Power speaks to women who’ve fought cancer, who are raising children with special needs, caring for elderly parents. Her artists are painters, poets, filmmakers, photographers, writers and and illustrators, and “art” is very much in general, but still such a force in all their lives. Power showing how complicated these lives are, and how various.

The value of book such as this isn’t any “self-help” it offers, though I suspect it could reassure most mothers that they aren’t alone. Inspiring me also with the many ways in which creative pursuits and motherhood are complementary. Which would not be the point though, the use-value hardly Power’s intention, but instead the stories are an end to themselves, just like our lives are. Beautifully told, beautifully set, they deserve to be out in the world– we’re better for them– and they really seem enough to fly by.

January 10, 2009

Bear With Me: Live!

At year ago I read actor/comedian Diane Flacks‘ book Bear With Me: What They Don’t Tell Your About Pregnancy and New Motherhood, and knew I was ready to have a baby because I’d read the whole book and still wanted one. Flacks’ book was hilarious, entertaining, well written and full of really practical advice that I’ve found useful already. My husband has since read (and enjoyed) the book, and I’ve recommended (and lent) it to friends. So how overjoyed was I to see that Bear With Me is now a play currently being performed (by Flacks) in Toronto? I’m looking forward to seeing it this month. Check out Flacks’ piece on her show in The Toronto Star.

January 9, 2009

Before you were born

“It was around here that I once said, ‘I used to work over there, before you were born.’
‘When I was a baby.’
‘No, before that. Before you were born.’
‘When I was just a teeny-tiny baby?’
‘No, before you were even here. Before you were in my tummy.’
‘I was…. Where.’
‘You were just a twinkle in your Daddy’s eye.’
‘I not a twinkle. I NOT a twinkle!!!’ And she started to kick and squawk. I suppose I did sound a bit smug; a little complacent about the idea that she was once non-existent. Too tough, really, for any age, but especially tough for two.” –Anne Enright, “Being Two” from Making Babies

January 5, 2009

On Context: Dream Babies and Great Expectations

The kinds of stories in Great Expectations: Twenty-Four Stories about Childbirth (eds. Dede Crane and Lisa Moore) are the kinds that any woman could tell. About labour gone long, rings of fire, gruff obstetricians, and idyllic birthing pools left unattended as women are rushed to the hospital in a cab. Certainly, after reading Ina-May’s Guide to Childbirth in a state of dumb bliss, I was in need of this sort of reality check: Stephanie Nolen’s contribution begins, “For about forty perfect minutes, I had the birth I wanted…”

Anyone can write about childbirth, and the experience of becoming and being a parent, but what I remain most grateful for is that good writers actually do. I felt this profoundly after reading Rachel Cusk’s A Life’s Work and Anne Enright’s Making Babies: that thank goodness novelists write about this sort of thing, for who else would be so capable of doing so? Of capturing the various sides of this most multi-sided and and ordinary event, and then casting them in a light that is entirely new. For anyone can write about this stuff, but not everyone will do it well.

So I had confidence in Great Expectations, which comprises contributions from Canadian novelists I love including Lynn Coady, Christy Ann Conlin, Karen Connelly, and Lisa Moore, as well as journalists (including Nolen), poets, editors, and other writers I should have already read. Caroline Adderson’s essay made me scream on the book’s first page, with its mother with the burst blood vessel in her eyes. “She paid at both ends, poor thing.” Esta Spalding’s essay on twinship followed, which broke my heart and made me fall in love: “Joy and sorrow. Twins.”

And onwards. I read this book in a single day, twenty-four births (at least) and the moment never ceased to be a miracle. I appreciated the points of view of the few male contributers (including Curtis Gillespie’s advice to those who follow him: “take off your wedding ring to avoid crushed fingers”). As a pregnant lady, I’ll note that Great Expectations is not an easy book to read, and certainly doesn’t serve to ease any fears (for I just learned new fears I didn’t even know I could have), but it was the context I found most reassuring. That this sort of thing happens all the time, and very often things go wrong, but then they’re okay, and in the end there’s a baby. How at the the end of her piece, Sandra Martin says of her children, “without them my journey would have been soulless.”

So 2008’s reading finished with Great Expectations, and I began 2009 with Christine Hardyment’s Dream Babies: Childcare Advice from John Locke to Gina Ford, in which context is the object, providing the most fascinating illuminations. That we have always had “childcare experts” among us, from Rousseau (“Emile [was] the most famous childrearing manual of the age”) whose own history shows desertion by his father, and abandonment of his own children to foundling hospitals. “His dream children were born free, natural and innocent, but became instantly oppressed.”

Hardyment’s book is a 2007 update to her 1983 original, and surveys childcare advice and practice from the 17th century to the present day. She shows that advice and practice were not always the same thing, but that both were influenced by fashion, politics, and sociological changes– how one thing has always lead to another. During the 20th century, with “behaviourists” between the wars creating model citizens, post-war Soviet backlash leading to Benjamin Spock’s acknowledgment of babies as individuals, child-centred babies raising their own children, to how childcare manuals have become the “parent-centred” volumes we see today. And throughout all these changes, parents have been grappling (differently) with the same problems: how to deal with feeding (breast best or not, depending on the era), sleep patterns, intellectual development, and toilet training. The evils of mouth-breathing, however, thankfully have ceased to be considered.

In noting how successive editions of 20th century childcare bibles were constantly adapting with the times, Hardyment makes clear how our ideas of baby raising are always in flux. Which is often a good thing, some advice of yore completely ridiculous so it seems from where I stand– hanging apartment dwelling babies out of windows in cages for daily airings was one, as were midwinter dunks in cold rivers, and mothers who were amateur apothecaries.

But on the whole, Hardyment marks no divide between a “silly then” and “sensible now”; there is no such thing as progress but parents are going in circles instead. This perspective making Dream Babies as useful as it is fascinating and amusing, the past available for the choosing of its best ideas and not just ridicule. Also making clear that the contradictory advice of those most ubiquitous baby user guides is just as chaotic as it seems to be, and so it has ever been. This most interesting corner of history (and history is all corners) providing a context so absolutely necessary, for otherwise, how would we know not to be told what to think? Hardyment writes, “Manuals need to be kept in their place: tools, not tyrants, a helpful indication of the varied options that face us, not holy writ.”

November 28, 2008

It's not Doris Lessing's fault

I am now reading The Diaries of Jane Somers, by Doris Lessing, and liking it completely. I’d always thought Margaret Atwood was the most all-over-the-shop writer ever, until I started reading Doris Lessing– range for the sake of range, it’s amazing. And so it’s not Doris Lessing’s fault that as soon as my orders came in at the library, I put her aside temporarily. It’s just that I’ve been reading quite a lot of weighty books of late, and they made The Big Rumpus by Ayun Halliday look pretty irresistible once I’d brought it home with me. I used to read Ayun Halliday in Bust when I was little (i.e. 20) and the book is contagiously energetic and as entertaining as her columns. I also like Ayun Halliday because it doesn’t occur to her it mightn’t be possible to have a baby but not a car.