Women’s Work as Artists and Writers

  Welcome to our fourth “Women’s Work” newsletter. How encouraging to publish this one in a new post Covid era when many of us can return to some of the lives we lived pre pandemic. I hope this finds you and your loved ones safe and well. This newsletter features the writer, Cynthia Chin-Lee, and the artist, film maker, photographer, Catherine Herrera.  Each traces their roots to their ancestors and to their origins of what led them to become the creative artists and writers. Cynthia begins her essay with her mother, Nancy. Nancy, while a talented visual artist and a story teller, was not allowed the freedom of her daughter. Despite winning prizes for her art and a scholarship to art school, she was asked to turn it down and support her brother’s ambition to attend college. Cynthia acknowledges her easier path to becoming a writer and growing up in her Chevy Chase area outside of Washington D.C.   She describes the discrimination her family faced in buying a home, or fire...

  1934, Baltimore, MD.   Someone was knocking on the door.    Then seven years old, Nancy was folding clean diapers for her mother, but her father grabbed her arm and shoved her into the closet. Her father  warned,“ Get  in there and be quiet!”    He then calmly proceeded to open the front door and chat with the local truant officer. The officer’s eyes narrowed as he said, “We heard you have a school-age child? She should be attending school. That’s the law.” Nancy’s father invited the officer to look around the house. Only small children were playing in the backyard, all too young to go to school.   While Nancy should have been going to school, she was held back so she could help take care of her younger siblings. She was not allowed to attend school until her brother, a year and a half younger, was old enough to go to school. By that time, it would be useful to have her walk with him as her parents cared about educating him, but not her. ...

  When I was a young artist, still unfamiliar with this energy called Creativity, after each new creation, I wondered, will Creativity show up again?  Is it something I can will up on my own? What brings it forth, what pushes it away? Dipping into the obscurity of the darkroom as a sweat lodge, where I communicated with Creativity, offering my dedication to perfect tone and the full Ansel Adams Zone.     Photography was the first of those images pinned to the cork board in my grandparents kitchen, stories of loved ones and where they were now. My Grandpa's travel photos and my Dad's first published photos were the first breadcrumbs on my path. Before there was a camera, I used my fingers to frame those images I would have taken.    Creativity returned. Again. And, again. I learned to collaborate with the energy, to offer proper deference and respect. I was no idiot. I knew I had no control over Creativity. Patiently, Creativity showed me how we could work t...