My wife Margaret is now in her seventh month of pregnancy. Her face has a warm flush to it, she walks a little slower, she carries herself differently. Her graceful manner seems to say that she is now two. Sometimes, in pregnancy, a woman can suddenly develop a beauty which is altogether singular, where her line becomes calligraphy, and her flesh has a different glow. Margaret is in that moment, now.
This painting began more than a year ago, I believe. Today, another artist and I hired the same model, and began to work. As I worked on my painting, I really thought of how incredible life is. I was just amazed by the idea of “woman.” Ideas such as that of a female fetus, at five months development in the womb, already having the eggs for the next generation. And so, you who are reading this were once within your grandmother’s womb. Within each woman resides worlds, separate beings, generations, life reborn, a variant upon the theme of mother. How amazing. This painting is a poem to this idea of conception, continuation, of birth as a sort of distant cousin to immortality.
“Thy life’s a miracle. Speak yet again.” Shakespeare, King Lear