My mother's birthday, April 17th, is one of the few dates that are indelibly engraved in my memory and this time of year is particularly saturated with the colours that she left behind. I've written about her before but I wanted to share with you the joy I feel when I look at the paintings she began to create from the age of ninety-four, right up until she died at ninety-seven. If you sometimes (all the time?) feel (like me) that time is creeping up - no, not creeping, galloping - take a look at this and be inspired, refreshed, re-vigorated. Yes, Blanche's paintings are 'naive'. No, they are not technically refined. But can you feel the energy, the excitment, the invention, the youth in those pictures? Are they the work of a little old lady? For me, they are a kick up the arse of apathy, a defiant non-conformity to clichés about ageing.
Bravo ma petite maman, je te salue!
1 comment:
My mother was a saint in my eyes. My old man was a bastard !!
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