Neon Artist Meryl Pataky on Shattering Stigma in a Time of Crisis

In the past week, I’ve gone from being excited to surprised, yet calm and optimistic to confused and devastated. A global pandemic on top of a personal crisis is a tremendous load to handle within the span of seven days; and in the interim, my husband, Brock, and I have see-sawed between being the one to exist in a state of dread to remaining level-headed. 

I’ve always been one to ask a multitude of questions, particularly when making a decision. I remember when we were trying to get pregnant, I was panicking and stricken with questions like: Am I going to be a good mom? What about the next 50 years and climate crisis? How are two freelance creatives going to support a kid?

I am a full time artist and my husband, Brock, owns Pt. 2 Gallery so things certainly are interesting. As an artist passionate about climate justice, my desire to have a child felt hypocritical during a time when the world’s youth was vowing not to. I struggled with these ideas of being able to raise our child in a crisis and to make sure he or she understood the impact of their existence. Heavy shit.

When I’d bring these issues up to Brock, he’d be so confidently optimistic. “Everything is going to be fine,” he’d say. “You’re not worried at all?” I’d poke and prod to get what I thought was a hidden truth out.  “No, we are going to be great.”  

Fast forward one year later, and one miscarriage later, I’m pregnant again in the seemingly cursed 2020. Brock is terrified and I’m strangely calm. I would be lying if I didn’t feel resentment about him not giving me the conversations I wanted when I was worried, glossing over my concerns with a blind optimism, but I’m over that now. Maybe I was just being Pisces psychic then—I knew something was going to happen and now that it is happening, I’m just…dealing.

I certainly have my moments, but, for the most part, I’m doing what I do in the studio—trusting the process. This may be the first time in history that people are having children without an assumed and privileged cloak of safety and sureness. Those issues I feel have resolved in me, or maybe I’m being naive. I am eight weeks pregnant during the Coronavirus pseudo-lockdown in the Bay Area. There are food shortages at grocery stores, people are sheltering in place, I am immunocompromised, and we are freelancers in the art world.

They say it’s going to last longer than one month. We were already stressed about finances. Now, I’m grappling with an entirely new set of questions including: How will the gallery make money with nobody seeing shows? How will the shows keep happening if nobody has access to studios; if nobody can travel to install like a normal day? What do gallery operations look like in a time of pandemic? 

Galleries in the Bay Area have always tread on uneven and unsure ground, and now this. Imagine a Bay Area that emerges from this crisis without creative spaces for artists. Pt. 2 houses many artists in studios above the exhibition space including musicians, painters, sculptors, animators, and photographers. All of their spaces are threatened if the gallery is jeopardized. On top of that, I wonder how he’ll be able to support us (me plus child), when he can’t support the artists that make up the programming. The success of the artists in our community is directly related to the success of our life as well. We are all interconnected.  

My show that was scheduled to open in the space April 11th lies in limbo, though I have a steel resolve within me to finish the work. In an almost prophetic twist, the pieces I was making delves into the climate crisis, and are astonishingly relevant now. When we found out about the shelter in place order, I rushed to my studio and brought home what glass and equipment I could, to set up in my garage to continue creating. Although, thinking about no one in the gallery even if my work is installed is heartbreaking at the very least. It’s the human connection and experience that drives me; and of course the press and content from shows is the foundation for securing commercial neon work and workshops. 

I have yet to see what pregnancy in the age of climate crisis and Coronavirus will look like. The prospect of new life to come, the one I hold inside of me, has stood as an anchor…until we had our first ultrasound. Because of COVID-19, Brock wasn’t allowed in the appointment with me. We were sad about this, even grieving then in the missed milestone for him. So I went in, alone; only to be told there was no fetal heart rate. At what we believe to be 8 weeks, my child was measuring in at only six weeks five days.  

I’m not sure how to express the rest of what happened or explain what everything means. We were told many things about the situation. To be certain, my doctor recommended waiting a week to do another ultrasound. I’m currently grasping on to a string of maybes to feel better. Maybe my cycle is messed up—I’ve always had irregular periods and I don’t necessarily trust the accuracy of the app I’ve been using. Maybe I ovulated much later than I thought. Maybe we will see a heartbeat at the next ultrasound. 

The most painful moments of the grieving process are in the morning. When I wake up and I remember. Each time I go to sleep, I forget. Then, come morning, reality hits. Grief compounds on itself, and I think about my mother, who passed 12 years ago, and how much I want her here with me during this time.

The most likely outcome is that I will have to decide between having a surgery to remove my baby or take a pill and have a miscarriage at home. Each of these options are weighted by the current Coronavirus situation we find ourselves in. We are working around changes that are happening daily. Brock, thinking wisely always, doesn’t want me in a situation where I am bleeding from home and we don’t have access to the doctor. My other option is surgery, which means going to a medical center during a pandemic. What in the actual fuck.  

Currently, I can’t even make the follow up appointment as the imaging center has canceled all procedures other than STAT appointments. My doctor has placed the referral as STAT but because we want to wait a week, I have to wait to call it in.

What we are holding onto now is our creative community, our chosen families, our actual families (living elsewhere) for support and ideas on how we can survive this. So many new hustles have been born from this including centering ourselves amid the chaos; maintaining mental and physical health; and finding within ourselves a resolve, skill, and perseverance we may have not known we had. 

Under normal circumstances, this is never something I would discuss publicly. But, we need to rely on our community at this time. We want to share our story and remove the stigma to create space for discussion and connection. If anything, we feel these experiences and tribulations give even more credence and justification to the name we had been contemplating for our child—Brave. I will gain inspiration from this being that formed and grew defiantly in a time of calamity, recession, depression, and uncertainty. We will honor the name ourselves and live out its meaning.

In the meantime, Brock has decided to sell unframed paper works by artists in an online viewing room. He’s making sales, which is great, and a bit unexpected. Artists and community members are showing their support for the gallery and artist spaces. It’s a heartwarming thing to see; and it seems the gallery may be able to pay rent for the exhibition space and the studio spaces in April—which is only a week away.  

As for myself, I’ve existed in a space between fits of rage and breakdowns. I cleaned out my garage and made it workable again. My fires are set up and ready to go. I will focus on making work—it’s the best thing. If we indeed need to go through a miscarriage or surgery, I have one week to get as much done on this work as possible. It’s very important to me and timely to finish. What I’m creating is more relevant than ever, and I cannot let the moment slip away. I am giving myself time when I need it and I’m being kind to myself, as per the doctor’s orders. 

Brock and I continue to summon courage for the spirit named Brave that we are trying to conjure. We high five every time we find ourselves laughing during this wild time consisting of a pandemic, miscarriage, and housebound living. “Hey look at us, we are laughing. High five.” I don’t know if I really believe in heaven or souls swirling above us, but I think it’s a nice thought to know that my mother will take care of the spirit we are imploring to stay, so I give myself that story.

My friend left a note and a present on our doorstep the other day—the best pound cake I’ve ever had. She doesn’t bake, and hardly cooks. I guess it just shows that, truly, anything can happen. The note says, “Someday, you will look back on this and realize why it all happened the way that it did.”  I cried. I do believe that.