ALISA OCHOA, DALLAS, TX
When I lived in New York, I was an artist with a small studio space outside of my apartment where I would work on drawings, paintings and ideas, and regularly had access to a space with a kiln where I could go on nights or weekends to make ceramic sculptures. My day job was to preserve and care for work made by other artists. Two months after the birth of my child, I resumed regular office hours. I pumped in the bathroom, sitting on a toilet, while facing a serial artwork by Kara Walker. It was composed of framed drawings and inscriptions on sheets of paper, arranged in a grid. Bodies cleaved apart from violence in one, written expression of a soon-to-be mother in another that read like a page from her journal where she tenderly addresses her unborn child as “my little watched pot.” The drawing that was precisely eye-level across from my seated position depicted a solitary, very pregnant woman. She looked directly at me, and I looked at her. We examined each other's bodies. Hers: blue ink gathered under her breasts accentuating her round torso, arms folded over her nude body as though she was literally trying to hold herself together. Mine: shadows underneath my eyes, my engorged breasts punctuated by cracked nipples, and still healing from second-degree perineum tears. As a new, first-time parent, I felt divided - time stretched thin, commutes home now urgent, tasks overlapped, sleep fragmented. At home, I took work calls, and at work, I pumped breast milk. Everything had turned inside out. When I was childless, I was able to separate the day job and the studio practice, the professional and personal neatly compartmentalized.
My spirited newborn turned into a fiend when I nursed after drinking a caffeinated beverage, so I quickly gave up that habit. I was cut off from what I wanted most. During early postpartum, I brought out my shot glasses from the cupboard to be used exclusively for soaking my soar nipples. While in situ, my mind would circle around memories of dancing bowls of caffeinated coffees. Time felt cocooned while nursing, resulting in a strange acute sense of viewing the world outside. One workday commute, I passed through the Lex Ave./59th St. subway station, as I had done many times before. For a brief moment, the hoards of passersby thinned out, and I saw for the first time Elizabeth Murray’s mosaic mural. Among the prominent images embellished on the mezzanine wall was a larger-than-life yellow coffee cup with steam spiraling out of it like a wayfinder, calling attention to all the commuters drinking from their bodega coffee cups. Coffee, coffee everywhere! Like Murray’s fantastic shapes and playful scale, my imagination spun like a Looney Tune. Eventually, my nipples toughened and their dual fires calmed, and after nearly a year, I was able to enjoy a cup.
Baby self-weaned just shy of sixteen months, and I celebrated the milestone by taking an evening wheel-throwing class. Still somewhat of a beginner to this particular process, it was not only immersive but pure labor: wedging, centering, opening, lifting, compressing. The disc of the potter’s wheel spun at a particular speed, while the centrifugal force enabled a clay blob to move through my fingers. My shoulders tensed, my elbows wobbled and my hands rushed through the steps at fierce speed. Inevitably, it resulted in messy defeat: clay walls so thin that they would collapse on themselves or tear apart between my fingers. “Don’t let the clay boss you around! Slow down, breathe,” the instructor repeated in an optimistic voice. The wonky mass of clay that laid in front of me immediately revealed structural weaknesses, which I had to address or let go. After months of this disciplined play, my fingers began to flow with more purpose through the formless lumps, creating clay vessels the size of tea cups. What was intended to be transformative skill-building helped me develop a deeper appreciation for everyday objects - how they are made, the details hidden behind their surface appearance. “Mom, did you make this cup? I like it,” my now-three year old says happily, holding a pink and white polka-dot tumbler I made. As he takes a sip of water, I notice it fits perfectly in his grasp. An ordinary object, it takes on the shape of a tiny body: shoulders, belly, foot. He cradles it in his hands as the lip of the cup touches his own - an intimate act reserved for my loved one. One of the first words he spoke was “Cheers.” My advice is to always keep your cup full.
ALISA’S SALTWATER NIPPLE SOAK
This is a soothing, all-natural treatment for tired, sore nipples. Do this once a day before bedtime, or when nipples need some TLC.
INGREDIENTS:
1 cup of warm water
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
2 shot glasses
Small towel
2 dabs of coconut oil
DIRECTIONS:
Pour half of the warm water into a small bowl and set aside.
Pour the remaining half into a measuring cup with a pouring spout and stir in the salt until it dissolves.
Pour water and salt mixture evenly into the shot glasses.
Lean forward against the shot glasses to create a seal around each nipple.
Lean back, pressing the shot glasses firmly against you for a minute or so.
Rinse nipples using the clear water from the bowl and pat your skin dry before applying coconut oil.
Alisa Ochoa applies bold colors and vivid patterns to all areas of visual expression, including ceramic sculpture and painting. Ochoa’s artistic achievement has been recognized with residencies at Hunter College Ceramic Department, Penland School of Craft, and Marie Walsh Sharpe; and with exhibitions nationwide. After a decade in Brooklyn, New York, she relocated with her family to Dallas, Texas, where she currently lives and works.