“There are so many people who imagine that words are nothing. On the contrary, don’t you think, it’s as interesting and as difficult to say a thing well as to paint a thing. There’s the art of line and colours, but there’s the art of words that will last just the same.” Vincent Van Gogh

We were sitting in the car together on St. Germain, deciding on a place to eat. I pointed through the window to Sawatdee — the only Thai restaurant in St. Cloud, Minnesota. It was unusually warm for an autumn day. Did we want spicy? The slight breeze rustled through the fresh Daytons bags in the back seat of my mother’s car. I got a slight and welcome waft of her Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door perfume as she tapped her hand on my shoulder — the way you touch someone when you want to make sure they are listening. “I forgot to tell you,” she said. “What?” “I was talking with mother (my Grandma Elsie) about your show. I told her how many paintings you sold. She told me to tell you that she’s so proud of you.” Her voice cracked as she said.

Now to put it in context, it was not the nature of an old Swedish woman to tell you how she felt. Oh, she would show you, with a belly squeeze, a rootbeer float, but words of actual praise didn’t come naturally or frequently. My mother, who let go of that silence long ago, gave me those words with such joy and such ease — these words that were almost visible as they ran the path from her heart, through her hand, into my very being. So filling, there was nothing for either one of us to do but cry. We swam in a magnificent tableau of tears of tenderness.

If I were to name this “painting,” it would be Saturday on St. Germain. It’s not lost on me, as I now sit here in France, home of the actual Saint Germain — a cradle of intellectual and artistic life. Renowned writers like Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, and artists like Pablo Picasso and Ernest Hemingway frequented its alleys, making Saint-Germain-des-Prés a significant hub of French culture. How delicious, I thought, that my first equivalent encounter would be in St. Cloud, Minnesota.

Did you come from a line of artists? People ask me this often. Not in the conventional way, I suppose. But pictures were painted with heart and words. And I see them. Live in them. I am indeed cradled to this very day.