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."
My therapist cautions me, draws me back from the too-painful, but I want to jump in. After all, I can't actually drown. My soul knows harsher fires, time to cauterize and heal, damn the pain.
ReplyDeleteI came back, and for the first time saw the word, suicide. Apologies for my insensitivity.
ReplyDeleteNo, worries, Zhoen, I know you're not insensitive and didn't take your comment that way. In fact, you bring up a real question: how much to jump into old hurts?
ReplyDeleteI love this painting...both as a painting and as a testament to your mother's freshness, as shown in her youthful passport photo. Than freshness served her well in charming anyone she wanted to charm... me, included.
ReplyDeleteWith a guide, yes. Without one, well, I only got so far doing that, never found the door out.
ReplyDelete