The Monoblog archive



I'd like to write a bit about my mother and about why it is entirely logical that her daughter runs an art-gallery.

I have memories, from when I still had to work hard at see over the edge of the table, of mother painstakingly explaining drawings, or  funny cartoons, to me . Drawing, funny or beautifully detailed, portraits or landscapes were part of what my mother did, always.

She drew all her life, all through school, all through work and all through motherhood. Much later, when I had moved away her letters where full of little images, everything that took place around her hopped, skipped or slept among the words in her letters. Around the house there were drawings and paintings of wildlife and flora, almost always with a twist. Very Swedish flowers almost always had a hummingbird or an oriental butterfly fluttering around them. Decorated chair legs had little devils clambering around.

And she taught, in fact she insisted upon, sharing her knowledge with me. I got Breughel, the Dutch painters, Caravaggio, the intricacies of engraving technique, all from her. There was so much to see! Not just the etruscian colleections in Rome, or bits of the Louvre I have never managed to find again, but the light ... as it painted foliage, crept through a broken fence or caught stones in a glittering stream

She painted too, and made prints and also some ceramics. But It was the drawing, her biology notes full of flower images and portraits of teachers and peers that I remember.

Her eye and her joy - " look there, look over there there".  Later she happily let me drag her through awkward lanes just to rejoice in how the light fell on a windowsill.

Mum never knew about my little spat with cancer, it was not thre right time to tell her. And I am so sorry that I didn't know then what I know now about cancer treatment. I could have given her
better support.






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