You're alive in my head.
I used to paint. In fact, I've always been somewhat fond of art, even the kind I could not fully comprehend.
My grandmother and my mother were both ardent supporters of any artistic endeavour that took my fancy. My grandmother would prove herself the strongest advocate, pursuing avenues for me without asking. I believe I may be published in a poetry collection from somewhere in the rural outskirts of Manchester. Who's to say? Regardless, she would always press me for pictures and paintings. When I was still counting my age by the fingers I held up, I had drawn a mouse with some cheese. She took this masterwork of a burgeoning genius (her words, not mine) with her across the pond when she departed from Canada, leaving me young and ironically lost in my homeland.
But time went on. I grew up. I grew stronger.
During a French exam in high school that I finished in less than half the time given, I took my number two pencil to the blank canvas that was the back of the exam paper. I sketched a geisha that took up eighty-five percent of the paper. The proctor who happened to be my teacher gazed over shoulders to ensure no funny business was occurring under her watchful eye. She glimpsed my art, or graffiti of sorts, on the back of my exam, and smiled. I smiled back and she actually returned my paper after it was graded in case I wanted to keep my art. I took it home. I believe my mother kept it from getting tossed in the trash. I eventually found out that it had been kept, like found treasure. My mother even pulled it out to show off to my grandmother on one of her transatlantic forays.
I remember, when I was engaged to be married and moved into my first apartment, collecting up art like it would sustain me with much the same gusto that those who lived through the Depression hoard non-perishables in their pantry. If I have this, I'll be fine. Best to have too much than not enough. One particular piece is actually a pair of collages in hot pink and bright blues and greens with recognizable faces in the forefront: Marilyn Monroe whom my grandmother adored on one and Audrey Hepburn whom I idolize on the other. I put them up in my bedroom. It was our bedroom at the time. The husband left (I asked him to), but the art remained.
Once the apartment was truly mine, I rearranged the bedroom and moved the art from one wall to another, but they stayed by my side. I loved this art and remembered reading in bed and, every so often, glancing up and seeing these two women staring back at me, both stuck in freeze frame poses that indelibly captured their roles but not their souls. Still, something sang from their eyes: Everything is going to be fine. Take comfort. Read on.
I read books about divorce at this time. I read books about failed marriage. Some were self-help, others followed narratives. Years later, I read Demi Moore's memoir Inside Out and got absorbed with a section about the dissolution of her relationship with fellow Brat Pack actor Emilio Estevez. It resonated with me:
“He didn’t want me to come up there to talk in person, either, and that’s when I thought, You know what? I’m going to stop trying to call him and call a realtor instead. I found an adorable fifties beach house on the end of a cul-de-sac in Malibu. And then I told Emilio I was moving out. He showed up in no time with a tattoo of a broken heart, trying to get me back. I think he was one of those men, at least in his youth, who found you much more interesting once he’d lost you. But it was too late: once I’m done, I’m done” (Moore 126).
And that was me. Once I'm done, I'm done. I broke up with a boyfriend at that tumultuous time. I ended up very ill soon after, which happened only once before when I had a truly awful boyfriend who broke up with me on my sixteenth birthday and I then contracted rumbling appendicitis seemingly the moment he said, "This isn't working out." At least back then I had parents who cared when their daughter collapsed in agony on the kitchen floor. Living alone was different. I took the key back from my first serious boyfriend after the breakup of my marriage, changed the locks, suffered through my first Valentine's Day as a single woman at which time I scoffed down chocolates given to me by friends who either pitied me or fancied me, and, a week later, I found myself dragging my trembling body in a slow crawl through my own vomit from my bedroom floor to my bathroom floor. When I tried to stand up in the loo, I passed out and bruised my back before hitting the ground. I remember dragging myself back to bed hours later, weak as I've ever felt, but, once there, looking up at these two strong divorcees, I never once contemplated going back. Once I'm done, I'm done.
Time went on. I grew up. I grew stronger.
In April 2019, I asked out a client who I had shot the shit with for almost three years. I'll make a long story short: we're married. He was a delight and, turns out, he likes art, too. Granted, I now have too much art and not enough wall. Many pieces lean up against a table in the basement for now, waiting to be returned to glory again once we finally renovate the office or the guest bedroom. But as you walk through the door and into our home, you can see clean through to the living room where Audrey and Marilyn stare you down before you've even had the chance to wipe your feet on the doormat.
And that is exactly what happened the other day. After doing his rounds from the magnets on the fridge to the toy car on our coffee table, my stepgrandson paused as if he was entranced by these paired pieces of art that have urged me through tough times and laughed with me through the more buoyant moments. I wondered if they were speaking to him, precious and inquisitive and joyful, in much the same way that they spoke to me.
He looked back at us, hanging in anticipation of what he might say. The wisdom of a boy on the verge of two years old can be greater than one would assume. Finally, he uttered a simple word: "Ew."
Elmo then popped on the adjacent TV screen and all was forgotten for him. We laughed, really hard. I'm still laughing, reliving it with my husband until our ribs were thoroughly tickled. That's art, though. Everyone's a critic.
My grandmother died this year and my grandfather returned to Canada within six months. He shipped over all his worldly belongings along with boxes of what my grandmother had kept through the years. He'd sold the records, but, as it turned out, he'd kept the paintings. My grandmother had my art. She had a painting of a pig that I'd done while I was with my first husband. She still had the mouse and cheese piece from when she was taller than me; she was under five feet, by the way, so I dwarfed her and swiftly. I even found the geisha drawing on the back of my French exam. She had kept it all. My grandmother will always be a saint to me.
And only today did it occur to me that when I looked up at Audrey and Marilyn, whose voices have been recorded for the sake of longevity countless times, I did not hear them telling me to get up off the floor and keep going. I heard my grandmother's voice. She said one day she would see my name in lights. She was always my biggest supporter, my greatest fan. I've made peace with the fact that no one will be as enthusiastic of me as she was. But now that I'm in her place, fanatical about this boy of almost-two the way she had been of me my whole life, seeing everything he does as its own artform, there's only one thing I must know: what exactly did my grandmother say to my grandson to make him say, "Ew." (I bet it was a dirty limerick. She always got me with the one that goes, "There was an old lady from Leeds...")
My grandmother and my mother were both ardent supporters of any artistic endeavour that took my fancy. My grandmother would prove herself the strongest advocate, pursuing avenues for me without asking. I believe I may be published in a poetry collection from somewhere in the rural outskirts of Manchester. Who's to say? Regardless, she would always press me for pictures and paintings. When I was still counting my age by the fingers I held up, I had drawn a mouse with some cheese. She took this masterwork of a burgeoning genius (her words, not mine) with her across the pond when she departed from Canada, leaving me young and ironically lost in my homeland.
But time went on. I grew up. I grew stronger.
During a French exam in high school that I finished in less than half the time given, I took my number two pencil to the blank canvas that was the back of the exam paper. I sketched a geisha that took up eighty-five percent of the paper. The proctor who happened to be my teacher gazed over shoulders to ensure no funny business was occurring under her watchful eye. She glimpsed my art, or graffiti of sorts, on the back of my exam, and smiled. I smiled back and she actually returned my paper after it was graded in case I wanted to keep my art. I took it home. I believe my mother kept it from getting tossed in the trash. I eventually found out that it had been kept, like found treasure. My mother even pulled it out to show off to my grandmother on one of her transatlantic forays.
I remember, when I was engaged to be married and moved into my first apartment, collecting up art like it would sustain me with much the same gusto that those who lived through the Depression hoard non-perishables in their pantry. If I have this, I'll be fine. Best to have too much than not enough. One particular piece is actually a pair of collages in hot pink and bright blues and greens with recognizable faces in the forefront: Marilyn Monroe whom my grandmother adored on one and Audrey Hepburn whom I idolize on the other. I put them up in my bedroom. It was our bedroom at the time. The husband left (I asked him to), but the art remained.
Once the apartment was truly mine, I rearranged the bedroom and moved the art from one wall to another, but they stayed by my side. I loved this art and remembered reading in bed and, every so often, glancing up and seeing these two women staring back at me, both stuck in freeze frame poses that indelibly captured their roles but not their souls. Still, something sang from their eyes: Everything is going to be fine. Take comfort. Read on.
I read books about divorce at this time. I read books about failed marriage. Some were self-help, others followed narratives. Years later, I read Demi Moore's memoir Inside Out and got absorbed with a section about the dissolution of her relationship with fellow Brat Pack actor Emilio Estevez. It resonated with me:
“He didn’t want me to come up there to talk in person, either, and that’s when I thought, You know what? I’m going to stop trying to call him and call a realtor instead. I found an adorable fifties beach house on the end of a cul-de-sac in Malibu. And then I told Emilio I was moving out. He showed up in no time with a tattoo of a broken heart, trying to get me back. I think he was one of those men, at least in his youth, who found you much more interesting once he’d lost you. But it was too late: once I’m done, I’m done” (Moore 126).
And that was me. Once I'm done, I'm done. I broke up with a boyfriend at that tumultuous time. I ended up very ill soon after, which happened only once before when I had a truly awful boyfriend who broke up with me on my sixteenth birthday and I then contracted rumbling appendicitis seemingly the moment he said, "This isn't working out." At least back then I had parents who cared when their daughter collapsed in agony on the kitchen floor. Living alone was different. I took the key back from my first serious boyfriend after the breakup of my marriage, changed the locks, suffered through my first Valentine's Day as a single woman at which time I scoffed down chocolates given to me by friends who either pitied me or fancied me, and, a week later, I found myself dragging my trembling body in a slow crawl through my own vomit from my bedroom floor to my bathroom floor. When I tried to stand up in the loo, I passed out and bruised my back before hitting the ground. I remember dragging myself back to bed hours later, weak as I've ever felt, but, once there, looking up at these two strong divorcees, I never once contemplated going back. Once I'm done, I'm done.
Time went on. I grew up. I grew stronger.
In April 2019, I asked out a client who I had shot the shit with for almost three years. I'll make a long story short: we're married. He was a delight and, turns out, he likes art, too. Granted, I now have too much art and not enough wall. Many pieces lean up against a table in the basement for now, waiting to be returned to glory again once we finally renovate the office or the guest bedroom. But as you walk through the door and into our home, you can see clean through to the living room where Audrey and Marilyn stare you down before you've even had the chance to wipe your feet on the doormat.
And that is exactly what happened the other day. After doing his rounds from the magnets on the fridge to the toy car on our coffee table, my stepgrandson paused as if he was entranced by these paired pieces of art that have urged me through tough times and laughed with me through the more buoyant moments. I wondered if they were speaking to him, precious and inquisitive and joyful, in much the same way that they spoke to me.
He looked back at us, hanging in anticipation of what he might say. The wisdom of a boy on the verge of two years old can be greater than one would assume. Finally, he uttered a simple word: "Ew."
Elmo then popped on the adjacent TV screen and all was forgotten for him. We laughed, really hard. I'm still laughing, reliving it with my husband until our ribs were thoroughly tickled. That's art, though. Everyone's a critic.
My grandmother died this year and my grandfather returned to Canada within six months. He shipped over all his worldly belongings along with boxes of what my grandmother had kept through the years. He'd sold the records, but, as it turned out, he'd kept the paintings. My grandmother had my art. She had a painting of a pig that I'd done while I was with my first husband. She still had the mouse and cheese piece from when she was taller than me; she was under five feet, by the way, so I dwarfed her and swiftly. I even found the geisha drawing on the back of my French exam. She had kept it all. My grandmother will always be a saint to me.
And only today did it occur to me that when I looked up at Audrey and Marilyn, whose voices have been recorded for the sake of longevity countless times, I did not hear them telling me to get up off the floor and keep going. I heard my grandmother's voice. She said one day she would see my name in lights. She was always my biggest supporter, my greatest fan. I've made peace with the fact that no one will be as enthusiastic of me as she was. But now that I'm in her place, fanatical about this boy of almost-two the way she had been of me my whole life, seeing everything he does as its own artform, there's only one thing I must know: what exactly did my grandmother say to my grandson to make him say, "Ew." (I bet it was a dirty limerick. She always got me with the one that goes, "There was an old lady from Leeds...")
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