The four years between 1996 and 2000 were horrible. In the midst of invasive infertility treatments, miscarriages and trying to finish the most elaborate book of my life, I hit a wall. It was so bad and debilitating I could not move for weeks. Depression is rotten to the core. It takes away anything good you may have and pisses it down the drain. And that is even assuming you know what good is anymore.
Do you think it's possible to live off of $10,000 for four years? It's not. Luckily it was "folly" money - the sum of my advance against royalties from North South Books (broken up into two payments, by the way). So much for the glamorous monetary rewards of children's book illustration. My husband had the real job and real family money that we were able to live on. I never intended this project to take four years. My books usually took about eight months to a year to complete. I wasn't worried about not finishing it when I said it would be done because my last book had done so well with this publisher. A bit arrogant now when I think about it. But that was also the depression talking. I could not shake the chronic darkness that sucked me dry. Losing twins after six failed IVF treatments had me lower than I could possibly imagine. I was only 28 - why the hell couldn't I get pregnant and stay pregnant?
Enter my new pharmacologist, and allow me to introduce Dexedrine, an elixir from the gods when stuck in a personal hell. Euphoria was instant.
Yes, I illustrated this book under the influence of amphetamines and hefty servings of wine. It still took four years, but never before did I get into such a painting groove, the likes of which I have not seen since. I easily put in 14-16 hour days huddled over my drafting table intoxicated by watercolor and hits of my new friend. I fell into the fantastical world of Hieronymus Bosch and the Flemish wonders of Hans Memling's triptychs that featured demons herding the damned souls down to the fiery pits of hell. Pieter de Hooch and Jan van Eyck's interiors were spread at my feet waiting to pop into the scenes. We all understood each other.
I'm not advocating the use of stimulants. But it was a ride. And they helped me survive, bringing me back from the edge of the cliff. At times I felt like leaping off. Sometimes we do what we need to do to make it out alive. I came through, and no longer rely on my drug of choice. But don't think I don't get a thrill whenever I hear pills rattling inside of their container. That's my Pavlovian response, I guess.
Twenty-six paintings, all in watercolor and gouache and a sprinkling of pixie dust. I made it through.
Can you tell?