My mother's Art

My mother's tiny art work. Photo by Matilda

Mother’s Day in South Africa.

This morning, being a mother and all, I granted myself an extra half an hour of lying in bed. I lay thinking about my children, all three of them more than a four hours’ drive from us. I felt like thanking them for being the ones to bring me to motherhood. I left it at that, knowing that they will all call during the day and make this a special day, even though we have never gone overboard with this kind of commemoration.

I then opened my journal as I do most every morning. From between the pages and into my lap fell a tiny artwork. A small cameo of lacey leaves and flowers set into a small card. The artist: my mother.

How did it get there? I honestly cannot remember putting it there. Maybe during the move it had surfaced somewhere and needed to be kept safe in order to later add it to the collection I have of my mother’s art work.

The synchronicity of it though made me sit up and take notice. Since she passed away more than a decade ago, I have rarely missed her. It may sound odd, but it is more of a case of always feeling her to be quite close. I will nearly always put on some piece of jewellery or a scarf or hat of hers when I have to face a difficult day, asking her to be especially close. But I have never before felt her actively taking part in this. It is more like a small, personal ritual acknowledging the fact that she is ever close. This seemed to be something else. Coming not from me.

So I thanked her. What to make of it though? Is it a gentle reminder of herself on Mother’s day? That would not be like her to do so. Maybe a sign of the same gratitude I feel toward my own children? Maybe. But the art work made me remember who she was more vividly than a photograph would.

My mother, the artist. Always creating something. Right up to her death she sat in bed knitting away at winter caps for her seven grandsons. I remembered all the dresses she had made for my sisters and me, the dance costumes for my brother. Her themed birthday cakes ranged from spectacular fairy castles to soccer fields. But it was water color that really spoke to her heart and which she only got round to when she was already very ill with multiple myeloma. Up till then she had worked full time as an office administrator, leaving little time to do art.

Hers are delicate botanical pictures done with water color pencils. The last one an unfinished composition of purple morning glories. How appropriate I had thought: fading away as she had until only the bare grey pencil lines that guided the color remained.

Does the fact that she had never exhibited or sold any of her art means that it is inferior to what we call great art? Certainly not. In the era that we live in I could take it further. I could collect all the pieces she gave away and do a posthumous exhibition.I could develop a range of greeting cards or stationery with it. Have it printed on beautiful linen. Make it into something we call great art.

Or I could just sit with it on Mother’s day and remember why she did it. Remember why I need to do it. Because we love it so.

Thank you, Mamma.

Matilda