There is the vision, the "different" way of looking at things. There are the philosophical conversations about the world that appear out of nowhere, out of noticing that a bird flies at an angle that she may not have seen before. There is the way in which any afternoon, any ride in the car, any wait in a restaurant, can become an engaging and productive activity. There are the hour long conversations that can take place between a red pencil and a blue pencil about the difference in their life experiences, or about one of their sisters, a green pencil, and her recent antics. There is the amazing privilege of displaying wonderful works of art in our home. There is the absolute wonder at hearing detailed and unprompted descriptions of the color and texture of that man's socks, you know, the man we met for fifteen minutes six years ago.
And then, on the flipside, there's boobs. Yeah, breast kinda boobs, the ones of age--not stupid people kinda boobs. And weight. And proportion. And flaws. And truth. And beauty.
I have a wonderful t-shirt that I wear to art fairs and the like. It says all kinds of good stuff, like "good art doesn't match your sofa" and "Art: Break the Rules." The other thing it says is "Art Won't Hurt You". I've always loved that one. Today, I'm repeating it, like a mantra.
A couple of weeks ago, my daughter had to do a self-portrait for an end of the year picture collage for her teacher. As these things will do, the activity expanded. She drew a self-portrait. I drew a self-portrait. We photographed ourselves and printed them out and did self-portraits from the photos. And we did portraits of one another.
Some of the readers of this blog know me "in real life". But some of you don't, and maybe you've been wondering what I look like.
This is me.
The hair is dead on. The decolletage, maybe not so much.I am honored.
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