My mother did not like a flimsy dishrag, nor dishtowel. Her hands could handle the most extreme conditions of the hottest water, so why would she expect anything less from the material within reach?
It wasn’t this alone, but she was constantly teaching me how she needed to be treated, and how to treat myself. It was down to the smallest detail. Decisions were always being made. What are you worth? What do you expect? What do you need? And to see her find the joy, wringing it out, hanging it over the faucet, as a job well done, ready for tomorrow’s task, it still makes me smile.
I finish the painting. Rinse out my brushes. And carry that same joy.
I imagine how the next day went. And the day after. Because their lives didn’t end when I got to the last page. Isn’t that what a good book does? With the same tools as every other writer, all the curved lines that form letters, the dots and dashes that make you stop in your tracks, an author can change the way you feel (not just in the moment) but for a lifetime.
I suppose it’s the same with love, when it’s written well upon your heart. That has to be what draws us in. What keeps us thinking. Those whose lives are so developed, whose storyline runs so deep, it continues long after the final turning of the page. These are the lives I want to surround myself with. It’s the life I want to live, and not in a vain way, (although I do indeed want you to keep coming back – I want to hold your interest) but also for myself — I want to be interested in my own life — to see where this goes. What could happen next? I want to live so deeply that the only choice isn’t even a choice, but a continuation.
The morning sun awakens the letters that tickle their way from heart to head to hands…and the story continues…
You think it’s an apron. And it is sometimes. The proof is the paint splatters that are beginning to gather. And it makes sense around my waist, as a quick brush off of excess water, or a change of color, but it doesn’t really explain the spots around my neck straps. Those are probably because of the dancing.
While the music plays along with the strokes, there are some songs that just won’t take no for an answer, and soon I am dancing like no one but the portraits are watching. Partnered by the brush in hand, I will get pulled in, hence the paint on my collar.
My neighbor continues to ask, though I’ve answered many times, “Are you a singer?” I’m sure she hears me on the way to my studio. I say, “Sometimes.” And I am a dancer sometimes. And sometimes a poet. Sometimes a baker. I suppose I used to give the answer no. Not anymore. Because I am sometimes all of these things. And more. And it’s not a judgement or declaration of things that I do extraordinarily well…but rather if I can say, “Well, I had a time!!!! Wasn’t that some time!”
And the song will change on the player and I am a painter again, but I smile above my painted straps, tap my foot, and know the truth of all that can be.
She asked me how I chose the bird for each portrait. “They simply fly in,” I said.
I suppose I’ve always believed in the pure randomness of it all. That it could happen to anyone, at any time. Pain, happiness, confusion, even love. And there’s comfort in that. And if it does, simply fly in, I have to remember that one does not outweigh the other. If I can shoulder happiness, then I can do the same with the next challenge carried in.
Sometimes I wonder, what if her kindergarten nap mat hadn’t been placed next to mine? What if she had transferred to Lincoln Elementary, from our beloved Washington? Would we still be friends? Would she still fly across the world to see me? And then we exchange emails on our current reads. Talk about the lemon boats at Roers’ bakery, our gym uniforms…and joy lands gently on my shoulder as wonder flings away.
And isn’t it all barely more than air? Whatever the day may bring, this winged moment, all will be shouldered. Even, ever, love.
And would I have known the difference, had I not opened a winter door in Minnesota? Had I not braced? Had I not lowered my head for impact as if the cold were not just a feeling, but an immovable object? Maybe. But I did. And I do know. I will always know.
I will always be grateful opening a summer morning door. Head high and sure that the way is clear. My bare legs think they are wings, untouched, simply a part of sky.
This is what love can do. When the cold comes. And not in the form of weather. To have the embrace, that requires no bracing, this is what gets you through. My mother was that summer sky. My grandparents. They kept my head, my heart, high and sure. They still do.
I open this morning’s French door, with the ease of being loved.
There’s always a risk, I suppose, for both parties, when being seen. And when I say that I’ve studied the arts, the masters, of course I include the instructions at university, the museums, the books, but long before any of that my mother was giving a master class at Herberger’s.
So graciously she added the fourth perspective as her peers stood in front of the three-way mirror. When it was good, oh, she praised them. But when it wasn’t, she didn’t fall in line with the store clerks, she gently offered, “I think we can do better.” She knew the right colors. The right fit. What to enhance, and what to hide. How to create the best presentation, without a stumble.
When painting a portrait, I gather it all in. From the Dutch. The French. The Italians. The Herbergers. And while that may sound a little funny, oh, do we need the masters now more than ever! I think about her daily. My mother’s whimsical and gentle grace. Then I see the news. I see the actions of people. I see the reflections of negative, cruel, and frankly, simply ugly people, I stand here, draped in my mother’s wisdom, and say, “I think we can do better.”
Today I get the Paris Review. Each one a treasure. Words and pictures. Stories and poems. A world held in the palm of my hands. Often clutched to my chest, as if the turning of the pages could not insert deep enough. You could think that it was simply the couture of all things France, but I will tell you, that I felt the same in our unfinished basement on Van Dyke Road in Alexandria, Minnesota, chubby hands wrapped around the newest issue of the Reader’s Digest.
Seeking relief from summer’s heat, I curled into the damp cool of the cement, and traveled my way slowly, armed with the directions given in the previous school years, from Mrs. Strand, Mrs. Bergstrom and Mrs. Erickson. I sounded out. Acted out. Laughed out loud to gather in the medicine the funny section claimed to offer. Lived out loud on every page.
And the thing is, it didn’t tell me my future. But it gave me the assurance that I would have one. Each letter a small taste of what was to come, if I dared the turning.
I don’t know what this day will bring. It may be the Reader’s Digest version of something glorious to come, or simply the cool comfort of what is. Either way, I will be saved.
The underpainting is not just the forgiving support of the image to come, but it is the voice of the story to be told.
I ordered a book from the company Blurb. The easiest narrative to relay would be how the first book was damaged. How the carrier screwed up the delivery, twice. It practically writes itself with all the usual suspects of annoyance and waiting, and disbelief and angered conversation. A real yarn to spin. But is that my underpainting? The real story that I want to tell is the final outcome. The book is beautiful. Blurb was fantastic to work with. While that may not be as riveting, it rests well on my heart.
I don’t like the feeling of irritation. I don’t like carrying it. I’m as guilty as the next person, but I’m trying to do better. Of course to be a better person, but even just for my own sanity.
When creating a new portrait, sometimes I like to stop before finishing, while the person is arriving and the underpainting still shows through. This is where I give thanks. This is where I see all that I have been given. Without my grandparents, my mother, my teachers and friends, (my forgiveness, my support) I would have no story to tell. They, you, are my underpainting. So I pause. Show you, so you know that I know. You rest well on my heart.
It was my mother’s best color. Of course she looked good in it, but there was more to it. We didn’t have google to ask why. It was enough to simply feel it, the power of turquoise.
“Use what you have to get what you need.” I tell myself this daily. But how do you get an afternoon with your mom, when she’s not here? What do I have to make that happen? I have paint. I have time. I mix the blue and the green. The calmness of the blue, settles and gathers and the green promises the growth of all things to come. And wasn’t that what I longed for, the hug and gentle release of my mother. The open window tells me it’s all still within reach. And I sit in the power of turquoise. And I am saved.
“America is my country, and Paris is my home town.” ― Gertrude Stein
I started discovering myself long before I moved to France. My mother saw to that.It wasn’t so much that we went on vacation when I was young. But we did travel. With neither plan nor map, we drove. When we stopped for gas, my mother placed one foot out the door. By the time the second foot landed she would say yes or no. This was not a judgement so much as a choice. And not whether she would actually fit in this place, but whether she wanted to. Visiting nearly all of the states, I won’t give you the list of “no”s. There were hard yesses throughout the country, but the easiest of these came in New England. One small, elegant, cultured town after another. Streets lined with freshly painted houses. Groomed lawns. High fashion behind screen door porches. Lobster on paper plates. Accessible luxury that not only agreed with her, but was her. I don’t know why we love what we love. I’m not even sure it really matters. I guess the most important thing is knowing when your are in the middle of love’s embrace. When your feet stop and say, “we’re here!” When your heart beats louder than any reservation your brain can come up with. When you don’t just feel alive, but you feel the fresh warmth of being born, again and again. When the only word is yes.
I have a recipe for bread. I can make it in a cocotte (a cast iron French oven), or I can make baguettes. Same ingredients, but different taste. I can’t tell you why it’s true, but only that we love it. When the scent rises with the morning sun, I am my mother’s daughter, driving on paved streets of the familiar unknown. I am still my country, but I am home. I slice the steaming baguette, add the butter and honey, raise it to my mouth, and say, “yes!”
