CRYING FLOWERS
A story about
healing
54” X 50”
I had not been
able to paint for many months, since the death of my little grandchild Josephine.
She was 2 ½ years old.
I was numb and
had no creativity left.
One morning,
as I was seating on my back porch' steps, my eyes got caught by the pink
flowers in front of me. They were dancing in the morning sun.
Somehow, they
reminded me of Josephine ‘s joy, of her excessive thirst for life, of her
enthusiasm for flowers, for chocolate, for dancing, for running, and most of
all for her parents. It reminded me of her dramatic approach to life.
Suddenly, I
needed to go to my studio. I was going to draw her, paint her.
I did several
charcoals, painted her in all colors, but it was at the end a pile of mud. No
drawing could match my perception of Josephine.
I felt
miserable and thought that I could never paint again. That was it.!
The next
morning as I was walking through my garden, I saw the same flowers looking at
me and I remember thinking: ”why not?”
I went back to
the studio and settled the largest canvas I could find on my easel, I mixed all
the pinks I could imagine, all the purples that she liked so much.
With a piece
of clothe I primed my canvas with a chartreuse green, which is the color of her
play-room and while it was drying, I went back to the garden with a small
canvas and sat in front of the flowers.
While I was
sketching my thumbnail, I realized that I was looking at the flowers, but
seeing Josephine.
When I came
back in front of my big canvas, I first started timidly to address the shape
and composition, but then it happened: the urge to paint.
Layers of
tears, layers of pink paint, layers of purple and white paint. They were all
layers of love
Today I look
at this piece and I do not know if it is good.
I do know
that, I Love it.
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