Jody Coughlin | Art that Flies: The Evolution of an Artist
My father died when I was one. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, drawing became my coping mechanism. Looking at that little girl I used to be, I see a child who couldn't formulate words to fit the emotions, but grief was the burden she carried and art was her wheelbarrow.
To my surprise, my art took on a life of its own once it was made. It did things I never imagined it could. I was in grade one when my teacher gave me a ten out of ten on a drawing I made about the dangers of smoking. I drew a dead man lying in a coffin with a lit cigarette in his mouth. I thought my candidness would get me in trouble, but it didn't. In grade three I drew the Crucifixion scene for an Easter poster competition. I was afraid I was going to get in trouble for it too. I won first place instead.
Art remained my friend as I grew. When I was 26, I lived in a 600 square foot cabin in the woods while my husband worked. There were many hours in the day that would have felt too quiet without art, even with my children playing almost literally under my feet. It was a great experience for us, but I became restless and applied for a reporter position at a local newspaper. I got the job and my husband and I reversed roles. I put art aside for what I thought might be forever. But when the paper eventually closed, art was there to save me again.
Back in my kitchen, in our little cabin in the woods, paintbrush in hand and giggling children bopping around, I began making art about pregnancy and motherhood: topics that were closest to me. I opened an Etsy Shop to offset the cost of art supplies, and eventually my Birth Art (as I call it) was noticed by an author who writes textbooks about motherhood and birth. She asked to feature my paintings in her writings. Once more, my work took on a life of its own. It seemed to fly out into the world beyond any boundary I might have set for it and sold to people from all walks of life.
I've moved on to making art about many different things since those days, but as I look back on this time, again I see my younger self coming to grips with something difficult and profound (motherhood). If I could, I would tell her to ignore critics, do away with doubt and fear, and create with total abandon. The trick doesn't lie in painting the perfect figure or developing the perfect style. The trick is to let your own voice speak. When the real you comes through your work, the art will spring to life and go wherever it is meant to. It's the magic of the art and the artist. I know that for sure.