One of the best compliments I’ve received lately was from a woman who said, while looking at the paintings, “I’ve seen the photos, but these feel alive.” That is the true success of a painting, I think. When the love you breathe in travels from heart to hand and lands gently onto the canvas, it continues to breathe, to welcome, to live. 

She used to crawl all over me, with an urgent need to be picked up. It didn’t seem to matter how. Within my arms, clutched in elbows. Balancing on top of my feet that pushed her toward the sky, almost into flight. And then one day, without my knowledge or permission, she passed me in height, but the need to be lifted remains. Now, I simply do it with a brush.

Each canvas marks a bit of time. Serving as reminders that even though time keeps passing, love never does. Never will. Love remains.

She asked me how long I’ve been living in France. I showed her the living timeline. I do not fear the passing of time. Love keeps lifting. (I am, however, going to need more paint.)