Monday Morning Musings:
“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.”
–Leonardo da Vinci
“I dream my painting and I paint my dream.”
–Vincent Van Gogh
My sisters and I call each other
“No one’s dead,” we quickly chirp,
a macabre affirmation of life,
a precaution for my perpetually panicked sister-niece,
(she answers the phone expecting disaster)
we laugh—because what can you do?
but then comes news of two deaths over the weekend,
my husband’s former colleague and a college friend,
we’re of a certain age now,
most of our friends have lost at least one parent,
some both,
middle-aged orphans,
I think about links to the past,
disappearing the way beads slide off string one by one
and I watch a miniseries about the Gay Rights Movement
see again the AIDS quilt,
memories squared and love-knotted,
blanketing the National Mall,
a memorial, a declaration
we protest with poetry and art,
against wars, against injustice,
fighting for the right to live
and to die in dignity,
(love is love is love is love)
in the epic story of our lives,
we are the heroes,
and its tragic victims
We dream and we create,
our lives, like intricately folded origami
unfolded in a split second,
a discovery that the crane
is now simply a wrinkled bit of paper
We take my mother to our daughter’s house for brunch,
my mother, once a child, now the matriarch,
a ninety-four-year-old orphan
her parents, her brother, and many of her friends are gone,
she can barely see, but still she paints
the vision must be in her mind and hands
felt, rather than seen,
poetry in paint,
tactile sensibility,
she has her first mimosa
and we talk of this and that
old hairstyles, Dallas nightclubs,
stories my daughter has never heard before
of a world and people that no longer exist,
I imagine a mirror with endless reflections
and the world through the looking glass
We’re through the looking glass in a mirrored room, transported to an 18th century French palace. Philadelphia Museum of Art
we laugh over misunderstood words
the kind of laughter that brings tears,
and we are entertained by pets,
sitting in the kitchen,
a domestic scene,
that could come from the past,
generations sitting around a table
My husband and I go to an exhibition of watercolors
an amazing show, 175 paintings on display,
the show traces the history–
how watercolor became an American medium
from what was essentially work done in the home,
by women, decorative artists, as well as illustrators
becomes much more after the Civil War
and Philadelphia,
with publications and art schools
becomes a center
The exhibition describes the painters’ techniques
the importance of the paper in the watercolors,
various textures and colors
watercolors are luminous, but fragile
reflecting light,
but also, fading in light,
the picture dies
the image no longer exists,
and I think of the building, landscapes, and people in the paintings
that no longer exist
except in these depictions
where the sun still shines and wind still blows
and alligators huddle together in the mud,
lethargic beasts with deadly grins
at night, I dream of light and art,
I paint my dream into a poem,
a dream of misty luminosity with opaque spots
brushed by the artist
(look there closely at the strokes)
on an unusual type of paper, with texture both rough and smooth
folded over and over,
to form different creases,
like wrinkles on faces in time
endless, like reflections in a mirror
Information:
We watched the miniseries, When We Rise
We saw the exhibition, “American Watercolor in the Age of Homer and Sargent”
You can see a trailer on the Philadelphia Museum of Art Website.
It is a stunning exhibition, but because watercolors are fragile, it will only be seen in Philadelphia. No photography is permitted.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 
A beautiful piece Merril. I like ‘our lives, like intricately folded origami
unfolded in a split second’…this captures so much.
Thank you so much, Janice!
Subconsciously, I wait to see what each new fold will create, knowing that when my time finally comes there will be few around who would recognize that original wrinkled bit of paper.
Yes, that is true, Ken. I wonder what people of the future might construct from the bits (bytes?) we’ve left behind in cyberspace, if they’re so inclined.
A feeling of consciousness here that puts origami in a whole new light for me. I am also feeling a strong synchronicity with a recent poem by Michael (Poetry Channel) linking life to bonsai.
Thanks so much, Janice.
I don’t know why I thought of origami. I don’t know much about it. 🙂
Sounds like you do (says the one who probably knows less about it) 😉
🙂
It occurs to me poetry and painting will outlast us. You can tell that to your perpetually-panicked sister-niece. Your mother is darling with her evolving art oeuvre and that first mimosa in her hand.
I especially liked the mirror with endless reflections, maybe like the pebble in the pond, influence spreading infinitely. One of Cliff’s art instructors said his style mimicked that of John Singer Sargent. You are so fortunate to be so close to Philly and the rich culture there.
Thank you, Marian. My daughter took the photo of Mom–it is a good one.
I love Sargent’s work. I will have to compare his watercolors now to his oils. My niece is not a painter or poet, and I don’t think that idea would quell her panic. 😉
That origami crane image is wonderful.
It’s funny, my uncle called last night and I froze. My aunt is still among the living, though, still in her Alzheimer’s descent. He wanted to talk. I’m grateful that he can use me as a sounding board. He feels confined by her illness, as my father was with my mother, as so many others I know. Is this our destiny?
Which is why seeing your mother is such a breath of fresh air, knowing she is still an integral, living, part of the life of your family. May it continue to be. (K)
That is so sweet, Kerfe. I’m sorry about your aunt (and your mother). My mom is starting to fade and forget. She’s definitely not the woman she was. I think some of it’s because she can’t see very well, so she can’t read, and it’s cut down on her interactions with people and limited what she does.
The end of life is a very hard puzzle to solve.
Yes, indeed.
paper – on which to write or paint or print – that may dissolve or fade in time is the image that came up for me reading this beautifully expressed piece, but hopeful that the memories will never fade. Thanks Merril, lovely!
Thanks so much, Susan!
More wonderful musing; especially the painting/poetry theme and how you introduce the idea to your mother’s continuing to paint with waning sight. (My Mum, the same age as yours, struggles with her sight, too).
Thanks so much, Derrick.
I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s sight. My mom has macular degeneration. It probably won’t get any worse at this point, but there’s nothing else that can be done to improve her sight either.
My Mum’s is the same. One wet, one dry.
My mom has dry–apparently some treatment kept it from becoming wet.
Great imagery in your words. The opening da Vinci quote is awesome (and new to me). Cheers to your mom still doing what she enjoys despite the limitations.
Thank you, Frank!
I think about links to the past,
disappearing the way beads slide off string one by one
Such a poignant and fitting image. And of course it dovetails with the delicate watercolors…
Thanks so much, Jennifer.
It really was a splendid exhibition, and it got me thinking. . . 🙂
No one’s dead… this is something I’ve probably said to my sisters, as well. Humor helps minds wrap around frightening concepts; nothing wrong with that! Your writing touches nerves inside, and I, too, have looked at old paintings and mused about those now no longer living. You write with such sincerity and openness, Merril. I’m swept away by emotions and withdraw within myself as I ponder your excellent thoughts.
P.S. I love how your tall husband towers above you; your lighthouse. xo
Thank you for your comment, Rose, and your kind words.
There were paintings and artists in the exhibition that were from the Philadelphia region, so that may have made me think more about how things have changed–a view of Atlantic City without all the modern day trappings.
I’m short and my husband is tall. My “lighthouse.” ❤
Lovely to be able to share the arts with your husband. Wonderful couple. xo
Thank you. 🙂
Cheers to your amazing mom. Such strengths in your family! 🥂
Thank you! 🙂