My mother, Lytton(a) Virginia Davis, twenty-one years old (1955)
This winter solstice will be the 11th anniversary of my mother's suicide. I've been wanting to do some sort of project about her for the past few years, to spend some time with her life (and death). Every time I've done anything, though, the push-back was too strong, like trying to approach a fire.
Now a set of watercolors feels doable; I've managed two so far, anyway, without melting from the emotional heat.
Art as asbestos?
My friend Anita says, "There's nothing so scary you can't draw it."