“Grief Is Not Regret”: The Art of Pink Hair
I was in the midst of writing my new novel, Choose This Now, the first time I saw Caroline McAuliffe’s photograph Pink Hair from her Invisible Móðir series. Falling into the work’s acid colors and wild accumulation of patterns, I thought: this is just how I want my book to read. Inspired by Victorian hidden mothers, glaringly invisible under blankets as they attempted to hold up their floppy babies, or immobilize their wiggly ones, for studio portraits, Caroline’s version was like those images with the lights switched on: technicolor, hilarious, and yet still tender.
Similarly to Caroline’s work, my book takes on motherhood, community, and artistic lineage. The novel follows its two protagonists, Valerie and Taline—Val and Tal—across twenty years as they start and restart careers, chase unrequited (or is it?) love, and become mothers. Near the middle of the book, I’d already included a reference to those Victorian hidden mothers. Seeing Caroline’s take, I wondered if the way I did it was as textured, playful, and poignant. I’d written Valerie as desperate to cast off her shroud. Her toddler, Berry, dressed as a ghost and inexplicably refusing to take part in her special Halloween ballet class, was keeping Val from the only adult interaction she’d get to have that day: forty-five minutes of chatting in the dance school lobby. She wanted a few moments of being seen, of being more than her little ghost’s support staff. As I sat with Pink Hair, though, I thought, no. That’s all overt—no metaphor needed to explain her desire for some conversation. It wasn’t invisibility that she bristled against but visibility. What she longed for was freedom from being unobserved, for everyone to stop looking at her. She’d be jealous of those hidden mothers. I went back in and made my reference better:
On the street, I look up at the holding-pen window, sure that there will be a row of parents and nannies watching to see if I’m still pulling Berry like an absolute monster now that we’re outside. What a poorly behaved mother, they’re thinking. I don’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.
On the ten-block walk home, I rake my hand through my unbrushed hair, knowing it looks ridiculous. I can feel how red in the face I am. I used to think this bedraggled look was a costume—new-mom drag—and I’d cast it off, getting back to normal soon enough. Now I wish I had a sheet over my head like Berry, except also covering my face. Like those moms in the old photographs Taline showed me once, sitting under blankets to prop up their kids for a studio portrait. A faceless piece of furniture.
Caroline’s photograph was a goal I wrote towards. When the executive director at Noemi Press, who will be publishing my book in March, asked if I had any ideas for cover art, I didn’t hesitate before saying yes. I’m honored that Caroline granted me permission to use Pink Hair on my book cover, designed by Steve Halle, and that she agreed to answer my questions about her work. – Nicole Haroutunian
Nicole Haroutunian: Can you share the genesis of and process behind the Invisible Móðir series?
Caroline McAuliffe: I took a history of photography class at Pratt when I was in grad school. I remember first seeing the Hidden Mothers and loving them. So strange and funny. Ridiculous and perfect. They haven’t left my brain since. I guess that’s how art works, things get churned around and around until they get spit out again.
I was compelled to make the images in this series. I was so clear headed about it. More than I’ve ever been. Sal was four months old when I threw a quilt over me and put the balaclava I had knit for him (before he was born) on, and took a few photos with him in my lap. When he protested, I used his doll Angelo to mock it up. I knew I had to make this happen. I made more masks for Sal, my wife Karen and myself, collected fabrics, and enlisted my friend Alan Cano to take the photos. I’ve worked with Alan and my friend Jessica Ward since 2017 to help make my masked visions a reality. They’re an artist-parent couple. Jessica was the first masked participant in my photographic dreams. And she helped behind the scenes during the Invisible Móðir photoshoot while 8.5 months pregnant herself.
NH: In my work as a museum educator at the American Folk Art Museum, I love drawing audiences into the stories that textiles can tell, the lives woven into the fabric. Are there stories behind the textiles in Pink Hair?
CM: There are so many stories in these fabrics. The “pink hair” has an amazing story. It’s a pink halter dress my godmother Jude made for herself in the early 70s that she gifted me when I visited her in Australia in 2018. As Jude shared after I made the image:
I laugh when I think of the story of the dress of mine that is part of your props used. Fabric was purchased by Carolyn in Hawaii. I had an invite to go to Jamaica from this guy called Merdes who drove a Mercedes haha. I decided to make a dress to wear for my New Year’s adventure in Jamaica and now that dress has become part of your art.
Jude was a fixture in my family. My parents, who met while in the Peace Corps in Jamaica in ‘68, also met Jude and her sister Carolyn there while they were traveling around the world from Australia. The four of them returned from their travels to the Bronx where they lived together for years. I love this dress, and although I wouldn’t wear it myself, it lives on in this series.
The quilt that makes the backdrop was my grandmother’s. She purchased it from a garage sale in Sun City, Arizona. She was famous for her garage sale finds and collections.
The floral shirt that drapes over Sal was thrifted in Finland on my travels through Scandinavia when I was first learning more about my scandi roots. The green floral fabric is Karen’s and the blue floral fabric over Karen’s face was thrifted years ago.
NH: You’ve described yourself as “mother non-conforming.” Can you say more about that and how it relates to your art?
CM: As I stumble to find language for how this new era of my life feels, I started calling it mother non-confirming. Being a parent still feels like a fever dream. I never believed I’d actually become a parent or let myself think about it too much. I always wanted to adopt when I was younger. For health reasons, I was told never to get pregnant by a very inappropriate doctor when I was 19 and I guess any urge to have children that ever came up for me got filed into the adoption folder. I knew after a certain point I didn’t have the income or life to adopt on my own. If I ever wanted anything more, I needed a very different life. Then, I met Karen. She won’t own up to it, but she asked if I wanted kids on the first date. I was floored. After dating 20-somethings, I was like wow—you went there. And I said well, not really, but I know I needed the right person to even dream about making that a reality. It’s our reality now. We’re mothers. It’s consuming. It’s great. It’s hard. It doesn’t fit like a glove. I love Sal and I grieve for my former self, my former life. But grief is not regret. I feel thankful. I know Karen and I could have easily not decided this for our lives but thought, why not try. I was very willing to accept what my body couldn’t do if that were the case. That wasn’t our experience. I guess I didn’t see myself as a person who desired a child. It still feels strange that this is my life, that we have a kid. Karen and I often remark this in bewilderment. Even with our fortune to have Sal, I still feel compelled to speak about the elements of parenting I didn’t expect and wasn’t prepared for. This series gives me space to do that.
NH: About midway through Choose This Now, one of the characters, Valerie, loses her patience with a tantruming toddler in front of an audience and finds herself longing to be like a hidden mother in one of those Victorian photographs, wishing she could disappear from view. Later she texts a friend: I can’t decide if I want to be my own person or obliterate that person forever. She’s struggling to navigate an evolving identity shift into motherhood—what some people call matrescence. Can you relate these sentiments to your work?
CM: Very much so. I really have felt more compelled to be hidden lately, but also be loud, or louder. I want to go out dancing and be in my body. I want to be big. Sometimes I think, wouldn’t it be easier if I had no desire to produce art or go dancing. Or wanting to do more than my job, or even be good at my job, for the sake of eliminating the tension of time between Sal and me. I think about it, but I don’t know how to be that person. It will never be me. There’s no “bouncing back” or mirage of doing what you used to. I had a lot of anger about this at first. It also took me a long time to accept my birth experience and how I was treated during my transition back to work. Two-and-a-half years has given me some time to reflect on all of this. I am more accepting of the changes now, and I have a better job.
MH: My friend, the writer Stella Fiore, recently said that “motherhood can amplify us.” I had to stop and write that down. Although, like my character Val, I have plenty of moments of struggle, for me, the identity shift into motherhood has had a net positive effect on my artistic life—I feel like I have more to write about, more community, more discipline, and more structure. I have a lot of privilege to feel this way, but I do think motherhood has amplified me as a writer. When I look at the evolution of your work since having your kid, I see shifts but also through-lines. Can you talk about what has changed and what has stayed the same?
CM: Being a parent and making work about this has given me a greater artistic community than I’ve had. I feel like I’m speaking a similar language to others. While I’m still making masked portraits and discussing the feelings of wanting to be present and invisible, I’m speaking about different shifts in my identity.
The original desire to be masked and free in my body came from gaining both greater health from fibromyalgia and realizing I was gay. These were giant shifts in my identity at the time. I had spent most of my twenties pretty sick. By thirty I was grappling with no longer being ill, which was hard to wrap my head around and accepting that I was attracted to women. The masks helped me a lot. It gave me a place to experiment artistically but also supported me in discussing aspects of myself I was just learning to convene with. My previous photographic work felt like making a place for me to live in my mind. I appreciated having permission to be a fool, and inviting others to do the same. The freedom it gave me felt infectious.
CM: Today, I am actively trying to see what’s possible from here. I spend a lot of time thinking about this new vantage point and how to materially express it. I plan extensively before I execute things these days, which is the nature of how I can spend my time. I have more time to configure things in my mind than to be with materials and make things. I also know what I want to say. I think that’s different. I used to be very impulsive with my making of masks and looser about how the photoshoots played out. The images in my mind are now very specific and discuss my shift into parenthood. I know I am speaking about my personhood but have enjoyed the connections and conversations that have come from this series. I have found more community in being an artist parent, for sure. I also want the work out there. And that goal has compelled me to join an artist mother collective, Mother Creatrix Collective, and show the work steadily over the last year.
NH: We both work as arts educators. I gave that same profession to one of the characters in my novel and through her, make visible some of the largely invisible work arts educators do to create meaningful experiences for their students. I also included descriptions of art, both making it and looking at it, throughout the book. Do you find that you integrate your teaching practice and your artistic practice? Or are they separate?
CM: It’s all one soup. I’ve always gained a lot from teaching. I love creating the possibility for experiences for children to create, and witness what happens. Children inspire me daily. I think it’s important to bring yourself to the “studio” wherever the container of art making is. I have been very fortunate to work in spaces that have allowed me to develop my own curricula that leans heavily on my own inspirations and material interests. The way children work with materials has often informed my own making. Currently I am working at a preschool as the studio and material specialist. It’s an amazing fit for my life. I set up provocations for children, and I get to engage with them through these materials. I’ve found the nature of this setting to be a strong reciprocal relationship. Working with this age group surrounded by seasoned coworkers has also helped me as a parent of a toddler. I go to work with toddlers and come home to a toddler with more nuanced language and ideas to create with my child at home.
NH: To be honest, I didn’t think you were going to agree to it when I asked if I could use your photograph on my book cover. We didn’t have a budget, and the image is so personal—at least I read it that way—and it includes your baby’s face. If it were my photograph, I’m not sure I would have let me use it. Why did you say yes?
CM: I was very excited to receive that email and to hear that Pink Hair resonated with you so much. That felt really good. That this very clear vision I had for this series was effective. You presenting the notion of permission to use Sal’s image was frankly the first time I thought of it like that. The image is so personal to me for its meaning, and of course as a family portrait so to speak, but as a visual artist these images were made with the intention to be shared. I look at these images and Sal looks nothing like this now. It’s wild how many evolutions he’s had since then. This photoshoot is coming up on 2 years ago and we’ve all been through and grown so much from those few hours in a photo studio, but also it feels like yesterday.
I am very thankful I made “Pink Hair.” It’s an emblem of still having a voice even though I so often feel like I’m in the back of the room with something to share, but no one is calling on my raised hand. My engagement with art making and the art world is very different. But if I’m honest with myself—a lot has happened with my art this past year, and I need to take stock of that. While I am still attempting to accept that this season of life is not one of “showing up” for anyone or anything else but my family, unless it is deliberately planned out and no one is too sick with the latest virus, I still long to go to gallery openings, studio visits, residencies, performances and other opportunities out there.
Find Caroline McAuliffe’s art on her webiste and on IG @carolinemcauliffeart
Find Nicole Haroutunian here: https://nicoleharoutunian.com
Choose This Now is available for pre-order and releasing in March 2024.
About the Author
Nicole Haroutunian is the author of Choose This Now (Noemi Press, 2024) and Speed Dreaming (Little a, 2015). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Georgia Review, the Bennington Review, Story, Tupelo Quarterly, Post Road, Tin House’s Open Bar, and elsewhere. She works in museum education and lives in Woodside, Queens in New York City.
Author photo © Sylvie Rosokoff.
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