Mother, Prism, and the River of Time

This reimagining of Diego Rivera’s  Maternity: Angelina and the Child is titled  Mother, Prism, and the River of Time . In this conceptual work, Rivera’s tender portrayal of motherhood is deconstructed and then reborn through geometric abstraction, elemental symbolism, and a surrealist dreamscape that transcends era and geography. It is not just an image of a mother and child—it is a voyage, a folding of generations and emotions into a crystalline sea of memory, migration, and transcendence. 

At the core of the piece sits a cubist reinterpretation of the maternal embrace—fragmented into blocks of crimson, indigo, soft clay, and golden ivory. The figures of Angelina and the child do not disappear beneath the abstraction but rather emerge from it, as if the purity of their bond cannot be fully broken down by form. Their bodies are geometry, but their connection remains pure and magnetic. This cubism is not meant to distance but to distill. It honors Rivera’s love for structure and clarity, offering a new language for timeless intimacy. 

To the upper right, a photorealistic Madonna-like face emerges—a young mother, her shawl loosely draped, her gaze tender and infinite. Her presence echoes Renaissance Madonnas while grounding this work in universal maternal archetypes. She is not Rivera’s Angelina exactly; she is every mother—ancient and yet contemporary, broken and whole. Her eyes meet the viewer’s with a quiet strength, inviting not admiration but reflection. 

The background is a world in flux. On the left, feathers burst like golden constellations from the twilight—symbols of flight, fragility, and spirit. Their swirling motion surrounds the mother and child, encasing them in a sacred wind. The feathers are drawn with fine strokes of ochre, teal, and champagne gold—colors that speak of lightness, but also of dreams in motion. This wind, though weightless, is powerful—it carries memory, instinct, and the call to protect. 

To the lower right, a boat sails into a glowing sun, crossing a mirrorlike sea that shimmers in tones of rose, peach, and lavender. This boat is not just a motif; it is a metaphor for motherhood itself—a vessel, a journey, a passage through light and storm. The setting sun behind it glows in concentric rings of magenta and apricot, like a cosmic heart pulsing with warmth and finality. It reminds us that every act of motherhood is both a holding and a letting go. 

Color, throughout this piece, is a language of motion and emotion. The reds that dominate the cubist forms suggest bloodline, love, urgency, and warmth. These are not loud reds—they are softened by rose and mulberry, signifying emotional intelligence and the quiet strength of sacrifice. They hum rather than shout, anchoring the center with tenderness. 

Purples and deep indigos form the shadows and curves between limbs and faces. These cooler tones lend the piece a sense of dusk and depth, a visual quietude. They evoke nighttime stories, whispered lullabies, and the womb of silence where identity begins. Their role here is meditative, almost sacred. 

The golden hues in the feathers and outer halos are chosen for transcendence. They are the light that guides, the wisdom passed down, and the unspoken hopes mothers carry in their hearts. The light glints softly rather than shining outright. It is not about glory, but grace. The subtle mint and teal tones interwoven in the background serve as breath—space for spirit, time, and renewal. They lift the heaviness, making the composition feel suspended rather than anchored. 

The entire composition bends like a horizonless globe. There are no edges or vanishing points. The world folds inward and expands outward at once. Each element touches another, either in shadow, hue, or geometry. This interconnectedness is intentional—because in motherhood, nothing exists in isolation. It is a continuum, a layering of lives, gestures, sacrifices, and quiet revolutions. 

When I created  Mother, Prism, and the River of Time , I imagined Rivera sitting at the intersection of his political commitment and his personal tenderness. He painted mothers not just as caregivers but as symbols of rootedness and resistance. In this work, I sought to honor that legacy by abstracting not the form of maternity, but the experience of it—how it shatters and reforms, how it stretches across waters and skies, how it lingers even after the child has grown. 

This piece is meant to be looked at like a lullaby sung across generations. It is for those who remember their mothers as oceans, as light bearers, as those who rowed across time to bring them to life. It is not a static portrait. It is a layered passage—of emotion, migration, and rebirth.