Family Reflection

I remember many long conversions with Meg regarding process and choices and the struggle to come to some kind of place of rest for her mind. She was always searching for new ways to express her inner world. Her inner self. In the end, I think it was actually that struggle to find, love and accept her own inner world that actually drove her in. And her paintings are in some ways a reflection of that struggle. Yes, they are bright and attractive and alluring. But they also seem to pull one into a deeper sense of, if not conflict, a place of depth and struggle for order. A sense of searching. As she wrote regarding monotype, “There is an element of surprise. An inability to completely control the outcome of the printed image. There is a sense of trying to make order out of chaos. In monotype there’s also an element of ‘carving out’ a space...” 

One particular phase of her work was founded on her experiences in Mexico in the mid ‘80s. Her desire to draw and paint had always been unstoppable. Her first memories were of her impulses to recreate images, to get them down, after having them filtered through her mind. She felt compelled to draw, to paint, to layer at all times in her life. And “Mex” as she liked to call it was no different. She painted on anything she could find. Even carving up her pants and shirts to paint on for lack of paper. The most striking of the images she created was of what she called her Mexican Flying Dogs. They were not cute or loving or friendly creatures. They were long tonged, sagging breasted, cackling beasts that never rested and always seemed on the move. They could appear dangerous or vengeful but there was never a doubt that they were filled with the joy of life. People would often label her work whimsical. She used to say to me, “I don’t like that terminology. I’m not comfortable with it being applied to my work.” I think her reasoning was that it could so easily render it “easy or simple. Just another pretty picture.” But for her, painting and the creative process were nothing short of her lifeblood. Everything she cared about, thought about, struggled with, loved, hated, grew frustrated with, was confused by, fell under the spell of her brushes and pencils. She was a conduit for their pathway onto the canvas or cut up pants or furniture or t-shirts or handmade paper. It was the process of doing the work that made her fulfilled and gave her a sense of existence. 

Her desire in life was to find depth. Her desire while painting was to find depth. Her paintings exemplify this goal in every stroke and choice. She always used to tell me, “Every drop of paint on that painting, every line of drawing, every layer of color is there by choice. Not one single thing is there without hours of thought, consideration and acceptance.” The same could be said of her life. Enjoy.